Jane the Killer - 2020 rewrite

Part 1

Ive always been somewhat of an observer, a "watcher", if you will. The window in my room upstairs was always my favorite spot to sit, as people-watching was quite possibly my favorite hobby. Just opening my window and watching the people who walked down the street gave me a sense of peace, yet offered a challenge to find all the things I could spot with my tiny brown eyes.

Id notice the little things, like how Ms. Susie down the road cut her hair into a bob and was flaunting it as she jogged, how the Andersons got a new german shepherd puppy over the summer of their sons 8th grade year, or when our neighbor mowed their lawn and the grass was a few inches shorter than normal.

Invigorating, I know, but I never said I was the most interesting kid.

On the first day of my freshman year, I opened my curtains as usual and peered out thru the glass window beside my bed, my reflection just barely visible on its clear surface. My hair was ratty and tangled from being in bed, but I didnt care; It wasnt like anyone would see me all day anyway, but regardless, I grabbed a brush off my nightstand and began running the bristles through my locks.

I noticed a moving van parked in front of the house that Mrs. Spencer had been attempting to sell all season. It stuck out like a sore thumb, just like the family unloading boxes from the U-Haul from a state over, I could tell by the painted design on the side. It still lingers in my mind, the way the truck glistened in the light, the way the colors of the bird painted along the side of the truck shone; such brilliant colors, but I digress.

'I guess someone bought it', I remember thinking to myself, but I wasn't too surprised. The neighborhood I lived in was generally nice. It had cheap houses, nice neighbors, and was close to the high-school Id be attending. It was your average suburban neighborhood, and I was your average suburban neighborhood girl, with her average suburban family.

My name is Jane Arkansaw, a bit plain but its pretty, like I was.

I suppose Im writing these journal entires for myself, to keep myself occupied or something like that. Maybe its my subconscious trying to work out my inner trauma. Yeah, that sounds about right.

I eyed up the family with intent, a new challenge for me to dissect under the microscope of my mind. It was a four person family, your typical nuclear family, but something about them was off. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I assumed it was just the fact they were from out of state, a bit nervous and jittery for their new move. The father's hands were constantly clasped as he oversaw his two sons unloading boxes, directing them as he went. I couldnt make our the mothers face, but she was at her husbands side, a box in hand, perhaps urging him to help out. She nudged his shoulder playfully, then went inside to unpack, I assume.

The taller son stood out in particular to me, perhaps it was his hair, brown like mine and about shoulder length, so off the bat I knew he was a city kid. He didn't seem bad upon first glance, probably a sweet kid if I were to have guessed. He took double the boxes his younger brother did.

The smaller son was working himself to the brink, taking as many boxes as he could, but still not enough, leaving most of them for his older brother.

After a while of unpacking, the two sons sat on the sidewalk further down the street, perhaps waiting for the bus. The boys sat close, talking about nothing Im sure, but enjoying each-others company regardless.

The mother came out after a bit as well, and out the corner of my eye I noticed Barbra Anderson waltz up to the parents, where the group chatted for a bit, but my eyes were on the sons.

I suppose I was a bit envious of their relationship.

As I was getting ready for my first day of school, I glanced out the window in which I thought would be the last time before school, but I noticed three young boys on skateboards boarding up to Jeff. Upon a second glance, the realization of exactly who it was hit me. Riding closer and closer to the boys at the bus stop was Randy and his crew, for lack of a better term. I doubt you could really call three teenage guys a crew.

Randy was the reason I didnt take the bus; Im not the bravest girl and my parents recognize that. The first time I was ever picked on by him in middle school on the dinky old school bus was the last time I ever took the bus again.

The group of teen boys began talking, and I felt a knot form in my stomach.

'Poor kid, his first impression of this neighborhood is getting freaked out and his money stoney' My thoughts trailed off as I continued getting ready, packing my bag and such.

It was a pretty mundane morning until I looked outside again, hoping Randy and his crew had left, but what I saw instead made the knot that formed in my stomach tighten and squeeze my insides til I felt bile in my throat.

The new kid with the brown hair had punched Randy in the face, blood running down his pimply temple. In that moment, he lunged and broke Randy's wrist, snapping it like a twig in his grasp. I could see it faintly, dangling helplessly in the autumn wind, as Randy cried out in pain.

My hands reflexively went to my mouth incase I did puke, as I whispered out a meek "Oh God", my voice caught in my throat.

"You IDIOT!" I screamed out, my voice finding itself and projecting those two words with vile ferocity.

My parents ran up the stairs moments after, asking what happened, probably thinking I broke something expensive. I shakily pointed at the window, my right hand still grasped around my mouth. They peered out the window with me, eyes bulging at what we saw.

The boy had cut the skinniest one of Randy's "crew", I believe his name was Keith. Blood gushed from the wound, staining his shirt red.

The last remaining member of the crew, Troy, went down with a single punch.

This new boy was definitely from the city.

At that point, someone must have called the police, as in between the ringing in my ears and the thumping of my heart, there were sirens.

Before I left for school, the wounded were being treated for their lacerations and bruises, so there was no doubt in my mind they would be fine.

I could barely walk down the stairs on my way to the car, the thumping in my chest growing louder and the pains in my stomach growing vicious.

The car-ride was long and painful, quite like this whole ordeal. My head was pounding and my mind was rushing. I stood there and did nothing as that new boy attacked them. They werent good people, and Im sure the boy was acting in self defense, as Randy and his crew carried weapons, but it didnt excuse him getting so violent.

I wish I had done something.