The Final Day of Helen Burns

Rating: K+ (for angst and sorrow)

This is actually the newest bit of fanfiction I've written and it was for university, how cool is that! I wrote how I imagined Helen Burns, Jane's dear friend at Lowood, might have passed her final day. She was such a religious character and she fascinated me so much. Getting inside her head, even if it was just for a school assignment, was intriguing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Morning broke across my eyelids, blinking open to reveal Miss Temple's room. It was empty of all occupants except myself. Knitting needles precariously perched on a cushion where the nurse usually sat, the ball of wool on the floor, leaving a trail of soft yarn in its wake. I gazed at it in the streak of fresh sunlight welling through the window. The sun brought out a brilliant red in the otherwise dull wool. A familiar tightening presses my chest and I gasp, preparing for the cough. It comes, as it always does, and this time there is much blood to accompany it, the same shade almost as the wool on the carpeting.

Moments pass and no one stirs to lift me from my crib for air. I cannot resent the nurse for abandoning my side for I am not her only charge. There are many others in a similar and, indeed, a far worsened state then myself. My life's blood spills into the palm of my hand yet I do not shudder at its presence. A lark sings sweetly to me from its perch in the row of hollyhocks outside Miss Temple's window, and there is stirring in the sickroom down below. Yet for me, all I know is that I am dying. Not of the disease which has claimed so many, not of typhus, but of consumption.

Had it been typhus, it would have been easier I think, on Miss Temple. It would have attacked me swiftly and in a few short weeks I should have gone to the arms of God. Yet this illness has been with me since my first year at Lowood and she has watched with such tender sympathy as I have degraded in health. Every winter worsens it and this year, I know, is to be my last. Do not think I pity myself. For I do not. Life is brief and there is much more to my existence than the physical. Rather, I embrace peacefulness in my soul, for I know I am nearing the time of returning to God. Indeed, I dearly pray for such an event. My body wearies itself with coughing and I yearn for days of eternal rest. At least I shall not die in winter, those months of aching bones and frigid, chapped hands, where only the barest slap from the switch in Miss Scatcherd's grasp might break open wounds on my palms.

Whenever the weather permits, Miss Temple hurries me outside for an hour or two, to take in the fresh air and sunshine. It is radiant and I sit in the shade of the porch, wrapped comfortingly in a shawl, and read whatever book she manages to procure for me. Sometimes, only rarely, do I see Jane Eyre. She runs and plays in the woods with a new playmate and one, I fear, who is not at all suited to her. They are too much alike, too passionate and contrary, Jane and Mary Ann. Sadness tinges my enjoyment of the outdoors whenever I see them together, for I know Mary Ann's influence could prove mighty if allowed to run unchecked. She would do nothing to stimulate positive discussion in Jane, nothing to encourage patience and self-control. If I were to pray for anything it would be that my brief time upon this earth in her presence has taught her something of the divine nature of God. A God who loves His creation, is divine goodness, and calls His children to submission and finally, home to rest in His arms. If only Jane could see Him as I see Him.

A tender voice calls, "Helen," and I turn my head towards Miss Temple as she opens the door to her chamber. It is time for breakfast and then a few hours of sunlight for the day is comfortably warm. I relish the sunshine, forgetting even to read today in between coughing bouts. The sickrooms are far away, on the opposite end of Lowood from the porch into the garden. All I smell are the scents of sweetbriar and lilies, mingling together to create a heavenly perfume which man could never imitate. There is no Jane today, or if there is, she passes during my dozing moments. Miss Temple fetches me indoors and back upstairs before dinner and I spend the rest of the day in my room, drowsing between sleep and wakefulness.

The nurse has returned and tidied my crib, tucking up the corners and setting the room aright. Her knitting is now well-hidden in a basket beside Miss Temple's dressing table and the window had been flung open at some point to permit a breeze to waft the billowy white curtains surrounding the head of my crib. But it is nearing evening now and a chill settles into my marrow, a shudder which the nurse happens to notice in her puttering. The window is drawn tightly closed, and she is just about to pull the curtains when I softly request, "Please, if you would leave them open. The moon, it comforts me." The woman does not respond but her eyes soften and she relinquishes her grasp on the linen.

The firelight blossoms brighter and sparks hiss on the grating when she plunges the poker deep into the flames, stirring it briefly. It only takes a few short moments before the nurse begins to nod in her chair, chin dipping towards her chest until finally the weary woman allows sleep to overtake her. It is just as well. I would much rather be left alone with my thoughts, content to watch the moon rise, mimicking the dawning sun. The world bathed in moonlight is luminous and clean, purified in the chilling rays. The wood is kept safely trimmed away from the school and in the boundary of grass between, the light shines pristine. How it lifts my spirits to see it, as a miraculous bower were angels tread. May heaven be as I imagine.

Miss Temple remarked to my nurse only this afternoon upon my frailty. They believed me sound asleep in my chair upon the porch, but I could not help overhearing their low conversation. She whispered, "How pale Helen looks, with her skin so translucent. You can nearly see the fragile bones underneath, she is so thin."

The nurse replied, "Indeed it is nearing her time, and her such a sweet young lady. Nary a word of complaint. Clever too for she is always inquiring after new reading material, books I would never have conceived of reading at her age." Their voices faded as they passed beyond the window.

I must have dozed for when my eyes open again, it is to a room with altered moonlight. The angle is higher in its zenith and I know some odd hours have passed since my last bout of wakefulness. A bare footstep sounds in the hall outside, pausing at the door which creaks then mutely moves on its hinges. I have not the energy to face the door, but I hear the footsteps approaching and all I can pray for is that it would be Jane Eyre. God answered this particular prayer in the affirmative when a meek voice inquired, "Helen, are you awake?" 'Twas all I required to give me happiness in my final earthbound night and I sit up, pull back the curtain and greet my little friend gently, "Can it be you, Jane?"