Call Me Jane

by Ryan Maitland

  Call Me Jane

  By Ryan Maitland

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Introduction

  “Sorry, it’s classified.”

  I have been on the giving and the receiving end of this statement, and I can tell you, right now, this is one of those times when it is usually better to give than to receive. I will admit that there are times when telling your friend this absolutely sucks, but for the most part, it is worse hearing than it is saying this.

  Since this chapter is called ‘Introduction’ I suppose I should actually introduce myself. My name is Jane Allison Doe. Yes, that is my real name. No, I am not kidding. Yes, I am that Jane Doe, the one that founded Jane’s House, the boarding school for psychics and who literally wrote the book, laws, and regulations about working with, and for, psychics.

  As I write this, the year is 2083 and I have finally been given permission, with some caveats, to write the memoirs I’ve been begging to write for decades in order to clear up some of the misconceptions, half-truths, and whole lies that have been spread about me in biographies, newsfeeds, documentaries, and movies.

  Now, obviously, I can’t tell you everything as there are some matters that are still classified, but I can tell you enough, if only to give you an accurate account of my life. I will add another caveat, though; in addition to my… smudging the details of certain events, I will tell you this: the only names that are real and not, in any way, fictionalized, are mine and that of Mr. Fluffybutt. I’ve had a few names in my life, from the name on my birth certificate, to the name on my ID, to my codenames. All of these names are real. It’s only the names of those that have come into my life that I will make up as I go along. For those that I like, the names will be boring, descriptive, or even flattering; for those I despise, the names will be considerably… less flattering.

  Call it writer’s prerogative or artistic license, whatever you like.

  There. You have been warned and I have introduced myself. With that out of the way, let’s get to it!

  Chapter 2

  In the Beginning

  I was born on October 13th in the year 2000. It was a Friday the 13th under a fool moon in a year with a rare planetary alignment, wherein the innermost six planets, including Earth, all lined up with each other. This is all a matter of public record. You can look it up if you like. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

  There? Satisfied? Good.

  Now, some have said, repeatedly, that I was born under an ominous sign, or a sign of great portent, or some other crystal-worshipping hooey, but I never put much stock in that kind of thinking. I think if I was born under a sign, then it read ‘abandon all hope ye who enter here’, given all the pain and grief I’ve had in my life…

  But I’m getting ahead of myself… Let’s go back to who I am…

  The name on my birth certificate reads Gloria Allison Lujah (pronounced Loo-yah). It’s a name that I despise and hope to use as little as possible in this book. The… man, for lack of a better word, that raised me thought it was a good name, since it sounds so much like ‘glory hallelujah.’ I’ll get to him in a moment.

  As you can see, I kept my middle name. My birth-mother’s name was Allison, and she died giving birth to me, so they decided to name me after her, I guess. It’s one of only two things, that I know of, that I got from my birth-mother, her name and her blood-type.

  She and I have the same, super-rare, blood-type. It’s called blood-type Omicron and is about as close to alien blood as you’ll find. Statistically, there are fewer than a dozen people on the planet with this blood-type, but I know of no donors. Even if I did know anyone else with my kind of blood, they wouldn’t donate it; it’d be too risky for them! You see, those of us with Omicron blood can’t afford to donate blood, as we need every drop we have… Omicron blood cells are smaller, but slightly fatter than normal blood, and at the same time are more elastic than regular blood. This means I can get by on less blood, since each cell carries slightly more oxygen within, but it also means it’s more difficult for my body to make it. This tends to make me prone to bleeding out, like a hemophiliac, as the blood cells are smaller, and don’t clot as well as larger cells do. This blood type is hereditary and is the result of a dozen or more mutations coming together into one annoying disorder.

  It is because of this blood-type that I suffer from a specialized kind of anemia, called Omicron-type anemia. I know, it’s not the most creative name, but I imagine doctors are less concerned with creativity than they are with conveying important information, especially when that information could mean the difference between life and death.

  Anyway, as you have probably guessed, this kind of anemia is a result of having type Omicron blood and the body’s inability to keep up with the demand of blood whenever any of it is lost. See, not only do I bleed out a lot, when cut, but I also have a hard time recovering afterwards! I also tend to bruise easily, much to my discomfort. All my life, my body has always been a little short of a full supply. It is only with the discovery of drugs that help the body make more blood and the advent of artificial blood that I have gotten to experience what it’s like to have a full supply!

  What does this mean for me? Well, it means that, growing up, I was almost always short of breath, for one thing. For another, it meant that any little scrape or cut, or for that matter, my period, were potentially disastrous situations…

  The difficulties with my blood-type was made worse by the two people that raised me. I won’t go so far as to call them ‘step-mom’ or ‘dad’ as I never felt they earned those titles, at least not for me… but I will call them by the names they deserve!

  The people that raised me are… let’s call them Jack Offerson and Billi Rubin… yeah, that’ll work! Heh heh heh… A little medical joke that I know my hematologist will get a kick out of!

  I remember that Jack was a tall man with dark brown hair and a thick mustache. I’d say he was on the skinny side, but with strong arms, the better to whip you with a belt. I remember he almost always wore a button-up shirt tucked into dark pants, usually with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow, showing an obvious tan-line when he took off his shirt. He always made it a point to remind me that he was a cop, the better to keep me from running away and seeking help, since cops always protect their own.

  Billi… Billi was a housewife. I never knew what she was before she married Jack, and I never bothered to ask later, since I wanted to put the past firmly behind me.

  When you escape from hell, you don’t look back.

  Jack had always told me, from the time that I can first remember, that I had killed my mother by being born. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was likely the result of Mom’s strange blood-type… For those of us with Omicron-type blood, getting pregnant and giving birth are both incredibly risky. For one thing, it’s rare for the fetus to survive, since the mother’s body may reject it for having a dangerous blood-type, which is to say anything but Omicron-type blood. Even if the fetus does survive, it’s rare for the mother to be able to carry it to term, since pregnancy puts extra strain on a body already strained to keep up with the demand for blood. As a result, I was born premature as a way of trying to save both the mother and the child, putting both of us on respirators delivering high concentrations of oxygen to make up for the anemia we both shared at that time.

  I survived; Mom didn’t.

  Jack never let me forget this, either… I heard it daily…

  Imagine being told that you had killed your own mother as a baby. Imagine being told tha
t you would never know her and that it was your fault! Imagine being called a demon-possessed murderer!

  It’s enough to skew your worldview, to say the least…

  As bad as Jack was, Billi managed to find a way to be worse…

  Billi was shorter than Jack, with the top of her head barely coming up to his eyes. She bounced from being too skinny to too plump and she was obsessed with watching her weight, which meant that she obsessed with watching my weight as well. She was blonde with tightly curled hair that bounced when she moved. She had bright blue eyes and pale skin, with big pouty lips in front of a dazzling smile that must have made some dentists rich and proud.

  Jack married Billi almost before Mom’s body was in the ground, or so it seems. I think it was Billi’s idea to homeschool me on the grounds that the school system should not be burdened by one as sinful as I was, or so they probably rationalized. In truth, they probably did it as a way of saving their own asses. I like to believe that if some teachers had seen me back then, they would have intervened, whether Jack was a cop or not.

  Billi was also fond of telling me that I had killed my own mother by being born, but she added the idea that Satan was working through me for all my misdeeds and that my killing my mother was only my first sin.

  That’s what she said, at any rate. Personally, I think she was just ashamed to be seen with me, a child that was not hers while she was forced to raise me.

  Anyone that saw me would realize that I wasn’t Billi’s daughter. I was anorexic thin, with pale skin and a face full of freckles. My hair was dark brown, almost black, and darker than Jack’s. It was also almost perfectly straight, without the need for flat irons. My eyes were the deep brown of my hair, which looked even darker because of how pale my skin was.

  Both Billi and Jack were devout bible-thumpers. As far as they were concerned, there was only one book worth reading and the bible was it. They were especially fond of ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ and in original sin.

  My room was… some would say Spartan, but I would say barren. My room was bare wood on all sides, without so much as carpeting to ease my feet on. There was a mattress, but it, too, was bare and lay on the floor, as if tossed in as an afterthought. There was also the bible, of course, the better to learn how sinful I was. And… that’s it! There was nothing else in my room. I didn’t even have so much as a light in that damn room, as they controlled it from outside!

  I was rarely allowed to leave the house, and never without tightly controlled supervision. I never saw anyone except Billi and Jack. When they determined that my day was done, they locked me in my room, with the lock on the outside.

  I think I missed out on being chained to the wall by this much…

  Billi oversaw all my ‘education’ and my meals. Since she was obsessed with our weights, she kept me on a strict vegetarian diet, which turned out to be just about the worst thing to do to a girl with Omicron-type blood, as the body requires protein above all else. More on that later… promise.

  I was also punished, mercilessly, for any perceived slight. Sometimes I was hit with a belt, but more often Billi got out the switch and sometimes whipped me until I passed out from blood-loss, all while she screamed bible verses at me…

  Growing up, all I could focus on was surviving. What else could I do? Between my anemia, my forced diet, and regular bleedings from beatings, I was always so incredibly close to dying…

  I think that’s why I was always able to see ghosts…

  Whew! Okay, I need a break. I’ll go into more detail in the next chapter. I promise.

  Chapter 3

  Family is Hell

  Okay, I’m back. I’ve got my emotional support bunny with me, so I should be good to go.

  Now… where did I leave off? Oh! Right! Yes, I see ghosts…

  That’s right! Ghosts are real! Ta da! Moving on…

  Oh, wait, you want more? Ugh! Fine…

  Not everyone that dies leaves a ghost. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the result of a horrific death or unfinished business or the stars aligned in just such a way that… like I said, I don’t know why. I’m guessing that people die without leaving a ghost far more often than not because, otherwise, I would have been drowning in ghosts! As it is, ghosts are common enough that I tend to see them wherever I go, but rare enough that I’m not dodging around them every waking moment of my life.

  Every ghost is slightly different, just as every person is different. Some just replay their last moments of life, over and over, while others seem like completely coherent, rational, people that just happen to be dead. Their appearance varies from nausea-inducing gore to bright and healthy-looking people. Their apparent age seems to be a matter of choice with them. Most of the time they appear as a younger version of themselves, but once or twice I’ve met one that decided to appear as an idealized older person.

  Ghosts tend to be anchored to this world, usually to a person, object, or place.

  The first ghost I ever met looked like a little blonde eight-year-old boy with pale blue eyes, wearing a hospital gown. Let’s call him Benjamin.

  Billi and Benjamin were twins. According to Benjamin, he got sick when he was fifteen. Doctors diagnosed him with some kind of cancer that was difficult to treat, at that time, but is totally curable now. The thing about cancer is that it doesn’t kill you quickly… It can take years or even decades to die, and in the meantime, you will suffer as everything you took for granted, from your health and well-being, to your sense of smell and taste, to your favorite foods, are slowly taken away from you. But it’s not just you that suffers… it’s also your friends and family that watch you die in slow-motion while they can do little or nothing to help. They suffer, too… it’s just harder to see their scars.

  Billi suffered as she watched her twin brother die before her eyes, slowly, but surely, with no way to stop it.

  Benjamin died around the age of fifteen, in the prime of youth! I think Benjamin’s slow death is what drove Billi to her fanaticism and devotion to her religion. She found comfort in the belief that Benjamin was in a better place, a place of love, peace, and comfort. Maybe Billi fought hard against her darker impulses and tried to be a good person so that she might one day see him again. Maybe it was her way of dealing with an otherwise random and senseless death. Maybe without that conviction, the grief and loss she felt would have destroyed her.

  Maybe… maybe… maybe…

  Maybe she should have kept her fanaticism to herself!

  Look, I might feel sorry for her if she hadn’t made my life a living hell… as it is, if there’s a hell, I hope she’s there!

  Speaking of hell… You would think that a person that sees ghosts would be well-versed in what happens to us after we die and whether there’s a heaven or a hell or something in-between.

  You’d be wrong.

  Yes, I see ghosts, but they don’t know what’s beyond this plane of existence, or even if there’s something beyond any more than we do. They’re stuck here same as us.

  Having said that, I hope there’s something better after this. I’ve lost too many good friends to think that there’s nothing left of them other than my memories of them…

  Let’s get back to the bit… to Billi and what she did to me that was so awful, shall we?

  Billi believed that sin was everywhere and that it was our duty to root it out, purge it, and purify it wherever possible. Her idea of ‘purging’ or ‘purifying’ mostly involved a lot of torture and bleeding until she was convinced of my sincere repentance. Whenever I exhibited anything she considered a sin, she would make me take off my shirt and bare my back to her so she could whip me with painful, bleeding, welts with her bamboo switch. I think they call it a switch because that’s the sound it makes as it flies through the air.

  I still have the scars from her punishments, even after all this time. It’s the reason I could never wear a backless dress. I also still flinch at any sound that sounds even remotely similar to that bloody switch!
r />   Such are the depths of my scars…

  Depending on the severity of the sin, I’d get anywhere between one lash and twenty lashes. She usually did this to me while also screaming bible verses at me…

  “You shall honor they father and mother!” Switch!

  “You shall not steal!” Switch!

  “Submit yourselves, then, to God!” Switch!

  “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you!” Switch!

  On and on and on… you get the idea…

  So, what did Billi consider a sin?

  Panting or generally being out of breath? Sign of impure thoughts. Five lashes.

  Talking to people that aren’t there? Devilry! Fifteen lashes.

  Asking about Billi’s dead brother? Get thee behind me Satan! Twenty lashes!

  Talking back? Sinful. Three lashes.

  Asking a question? Marginal sin. Two lashes.

  Trying to read anything that wasn’t the bible? Blasphemer! Twelve lashes!

  TV? Radio? Internet? All works of Satan! One lash each!

  Crying out or screaming? Ungrateful child! One more lash!

  Remember how I have freaky blood? Remember how I said I couldn’t afford to lose any? There were times when I lost so much blood that I would literally pass out. I counted those as the good times!

  They never took me to the hospital. They barely dressed my wounds! They’d give me a clean, white, cotton shirt and make me lay on my back to put pressure on the bleeding cuts and that’s it! It was because of this that I wasn’t allowed anything nicer to wear than white cotton shirts, shorts, and underwear. Well, that and the fact that the two of them were horrible people that didn’t want anyone to know they had a daughter… In their eyes I think I was a walking sin…

  Jack’s punishments left fewer marks, but were no less scarring. If he was really mad or annoyed, he’d pull down my shorts and underwear, bend me over his knee, and whip my butt with his belt to the point where sitting down was painful. You never fully appreciate the meaning of ‘pain in the ass’ until your butt is covered in enough bruises that sitting down was agonizing. This was made worse because refusing to sit down was seen as defying your parents and, thus, sinful enough to warrant four lashes in addition to the bruises on my ass.