I don’t know why, but the chain I been fighting all day suddenly, magically unclasping itself makes “today” funny. After ‘x’ amount of hours, I know where I am—even if I don’t get why (sigh, creative writing prompts)—but it lets me know that I really don’t have power here. Bertha is I, and I am she.

I laugh the kinda laugh that Bertha probably makes—a mad scientist laugh—partly because I’m supposed to as Bertha, and partly because why not? I don’t think Mr. Rochester will think it’s great, but then again, he’s gonna lie when asked about it later.

Also, he’s the one who has me chained to a bed (Or is that Charlotte herself? How meta are we getting here?) and called me a beastly woman.

Seriously. I admit that calling him everything but a child of God as I pulled at the CHAIN AROUND MY ANKLE and yelled about just trying to get a sandwich before all of this didn’t help convince him that I’m not his insane Caribbean-born wife, but him going, “I won’t let you free to ruin my last grasp for happiness, you beastly woman,” is ridiculous. Like, be for real; you could pay people to cover this marriage up for you, sir.

(Where was I? Oh yeah, getting free. Food.)

I figure Grace Poole is supposed to be passed out drunk and asleep no matter what, but I still tiptoe past her and out into the hallway. And somehow the candle on the far side of my room is in hand.

GrGURglE.

That is my stomach, y’all.

Aight, I’m heading to the kitchen. Question: have ice boxes been invented?

Of course, my plans aren’t the book’s plans because the moment I step out, I’m being pulled somewhere else. It’s like the opposite of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ (I’m mixing classics here; sorry): the end of my nightgown pulls opposite to where I’m trying to go; my body is half flailing; and when I think I beat it, I’m actually standing in front of Jane Eyre’s bedroom door—and it just magically flies open for me.

In I walk until I’m at her bedside and leaning over her like I can’t not be creepy.

... I don’t get why Brontë says she’s not pretty; she seems fine. Is it cuz if she’s not pretty, I wouldn’t feel sorry for her? That’s dumb; having dark hair is not that big a deal.

I personally don’t think the situation is funny, but Bertha’s gotta laugh, so there I go, laughing again—this time with my head thrown back (Bertha has a flair for the dramatic). And—what the heck, candle?! You couldn’t hold out until I get some GD bread?! You HAD to catch fire?!

Now Jane Eyre wakes up. And sees me.

We’re face to face, eye to eye.

My stomach growls.

This is a lot.

And then the scene ends.