Jane Doe

• Natasha Hannsen, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2012

The rain pelted the dark road in a thousand tiny tears. It was hard to hear the sound of the rain over the screaming sirens and flashing lights. It was as if a cyclone had torn up the remainder of the winding road and the brush to the side, but it was hard to determine the exact outline of shapes, as the inky shadows melted everything together. The before rush of bodies had subsided and only a few remained. Speaking in hushed tones and fluorescent jackets, they trod quietly. It was no point. She could no longer hear them anyway.
Everything was white and clean. Even the bed she was on had new sheets. They were wasted. The corridor was quiet at that time, and there were no bodies to absorb the sound of the echoing footsteps and the rolling wheels. He resisted the urge to peek under the blanket; they had warned him not to. The face was no longer pretty. He just wheeled the bed into the cold metal room, no white anymore, and left her there.
It was days before they remembered her. No one had come. No crying families or friends or lovers. Just her. They said she lived alone with a cat, but even it had run away. Probably found a new family by now. No one knew why she was on the road or where she was going, and no one cared. In the end there was only granite and dirt. Not even flowers. It’s funny how easily things are forgotten. They called her Jane, but her name was Maria. It’s funny how easily things are forgotten.