Entry #10 ?
When I was little, my mother always used to tell me that when it rains, it means the angels are crying. Crying for what exactly? This time I found out my answer when I got back from my conference meeting.
To anyone who's reading this, you can probably guess I am not Jane. My name is Bailey Benjamin - the stuck up bitch Jane decided to mention in her entire diary. She could've written about anything else - her friends, family, street life - no, she decided to write about what happened between us. There is something I will say in respect to her though: everything she has written thus far is true. I'll admit, she did a good job at making me the villain in this little story of hers, too. However, now it's time for me to continue it.
The rain was indeed heavy on my way back from New York, and the sound of it pounding against the roof of the train was the only noise throughout the entire ride. It was eerily lonesome without her there, but every few minutes I found myself glancing up at the door to make sure she really wouldn't be coming. She never did. She would never walk into that train, nor any other train, ever again. She would never be able to sit by a window and watch the world go by with that faraway look in her eye either.
I wouldn't discover why everything seemed so off and out of place until the next morning while I was skimming the newspaper in my office. 'TEENAGE GIRL SHOT DOWN OUTSIDE TOWN' was what the headline read. Her yearbook picture was beneath it along with the caption: 'Jane Doe, 16, died Saturday in fight with rival gang'. My heart skipped a beat, and I dropped my mug, spilling coffee all over my $200 dress. Saturday was the day the two of us met on the train. Did that mean if I had not waken her up in time to get off on her stop...she would've still been alive?
And why was I feeling bad? I was the one who picked on her day after day, I was the one who led her to cut herself; I was the one who denied our friendship. Would I have led her to kill herself eventually? Why was I feeling as if my heart was sinking? All those thoughts ran through my head. There could only be one explanation: guilt.
Later that morning, I skipped school and made it my objective to visit the local church. There, I confessed to the priest all that was on my mind regarding the death of Jane, and how I felt responsible since I had tormented her. He said I would be a forgiven, and that took some weight off my shoulders, however I wasn't totally convinced. As I walked away to leave, he did say something interesting though. He told me not to fret, for I had a guardian angel following me.
That stuck to me even as I departed from the church to my humble smart car outside. My day wasn't over, and I wasn't going home yet - I was going to see Jane. On my ride to the graveyard, it began to rain; lightly at first, but it soon started pouring down in bucketfuls. If it weren't for headlights and wind-shield wipers, I would've never spotted the cemetery gate. Deciding to leave my car where it was, I grabbed an umbrella from the glove department and headed out. The gates were tall and rusty, but I had the determination to shove them open enough to squeeze myself through. The ground was wet and slippery, but my now destroyed high heels pressed forward.
The cemetery in this town has a tradition: if the person who has passed away has a diary or journal they are able to obtain, they place it in a steel box beside the tomb. The purpose of this is for others to be able to step into that person's shoes and see what that person's story was. I'm surprised there weren't a dozen people at a time trying to view the diary of Jane. Walking deeper into the final resting place for the deceased, I eventually came across the grave I was looking for.
Since it was a fresh burial - due to the rain - the dirt was turned into mud that surrounded the headstone; it nearly hid her box from sight. Reaching down and getting muck all over my hand, I grabbed the container and pried it open. Inside, I found her small, black, pathetic looking diary. I was actually surprised she did have one; in my opinion, she didn't seem like the type that would. I opened up to the first page where I found a passage that read:
"Her feelings - she hides,
Her dreams - she can't find.
She's losing her mind,
she's falling behind.
She can't find her place,
She's losing her faith.
She's fallen from grace,
She's all over the place..."
On the next page, she began telling the story of how we met as children. Skipping to the last page, I discovered her last entry was about meeting me on the train. I shut the book. I absolutely did not want to put it back, so I decided to keep it in order to read it in detail. Putting down the empty box, I slipped the diary into my coat pocket and headed back to my car. I would later find the diary possessed lyrics, poems Jane had written, as well as the picture she had taken of us from all those years ago. It appeared as if her entire soul went into these entries...
...and I don't mean that metaphorically.
Entry #10 ?