I laboured over this one. I tried to rely on both the book and the movie, and to balance this story between them, but I must say, it was awfully hard. Despite having written about these characters so much already, it's difficult every time. I don't want to repeat myself, but neither is it easy to think of new ways to approach the Hudsons' tragical lives. This story is my take on the car crash of 1935 and its aftermath.

As always, I hope you enjoy, and please leave me a review if you do! :)

Blanche tried to make herself as small as possible in the passenger seat when Jane waved goodbye to the other party guests with unrestrained glee. The car started with a jolt and rolled out of the driveway. Jane was giggling in the driver's seat as Blanche rubbed her fingers over the spot on her wrist where Jane's nails had dug into her skin as a reaction to Blanche's refusing to give her the car keys.

All she wanted to do was to climb into bed and sleep off her exasperation with Jane's drunken behaviour. She didn't often take Jane's words into heart; there was just not enough room for all of them. But the way she had imitated her tonight had really stung deep. Jane had been in the centre of attention for half the night with her coarse humour and funny tipsy dancing. Blanche had felt so embarrassed—all her friends thought she was dotty to not realize Jane was not cut out for this life.

Blanche had no illusions like that, but she'd made a promise to herself a long time ago to make Jane pay for the neglect she'd had to endure as a child. She knew her success as a constant reminder of Jane's decline would hurt her sister, and she wanted it to. To the public eye it seemed like she was trying to boost Jane's career out of love for her sister, and it was all the more perfect that way. Blanche couldn't deny feeling affection for her sister but that didn't keep her from wanting her revenge.

A couple of blocks from the party the car came to a slow stop and Blanche looked over to the driver's seat. Jane's head had fallen against the steering wheel and Blanche came to the quick conclusion that she had fallen asleep. With an irritated sigh Blanche reached over and touched her shoulder. "Jane," she said softly and when her sister didn't move, Blanche nudged her with newfound vigour. "Jane, wake up! You can't sleep here."

Jane mumbled something and pushed Blanche's hand away. Her irritation quickly turning into determination, Blanche reached over with both hands and pulled Jane up into a sitting position. Jane's eyes flew open momentarily and she stared at Blanche with surprise and vexation. "Jane, listen to me," Blanche tried to sound calm and not too stern. "We have to change places, so I can drive us home. Can you do that?"

Jane's eyes started to close again, so Blanche had to shake her again. "No, Jane, not yet," she said quickly. "You can sleep in my seat." She could tell Jane's attention, as blurred as it might have been, was on her now, and Blanche gave her a hopeful smile. "Now, all you need to do, dear," she instructed as she reached behind her and opened the door on her side of the car, "is to lift your legs a little and climb over here."

Blanche was rather surprised at how easily Jane gave in to her lead. Jane gave a small nod and Blanche, holding on to Jane's arms to support her, slid farther away on her seat to make room for Jane. The older Hudson sister moved slowly but determinedly to the sound of Blanche's quiet encouragements. She had already made it to the passenger seat and Blanche was half-way out the door when Jane fell limp against her, nearly knocking Blanche into the street.

"Oh, pull yourself together, Jane," Blanche hissed in annoyance and pushed her sister away from her to be able to stand up. Then, however, she looked back at her older sister positioned in an awfully uncomfortable way between the seat and the dashboard, and Blanche's fickle heart stung sharply. It was a crying shame how things had turned out between the two of them, she thought as she gently pulled her sister fully onto the seat and guided her head against the headrest. She pushed Jane's hair out of her face and closed the door quietly.

After she'd made her way briskly over to the other side of the car, Blanche got in and started the car again, eager to finally get home.

When the car turned onto Hillside Terrace, Blanche reached over and nudged her sister to wake her. Jane mumbled a groggy response. "I need you to go and open the gates for me, Jane," Blanche said when she was confident her sister was paying attention again. "Okay?"

"Okay-okay," Jane muttered and her hand sought the door.

"Not yet, Jane!" Blanche cried out in alarm, pulling at Jane's arm and nearly hitting a passing car. Jane sunk back in her seat sullenly and watched the neighbours' house pass by.

Once the car had pulled to a stop, Jane took a long minute to get her door open. Blanche watched her get out of the car and teeter towards the iron gates. Jane was so hopelessly drunk, she could hardly walk straight. It would have been kinder of Blanche to go and open the gates herself.

The thought of being kind towards Jane suddenly took Blanche back to the party they had left about a half an hour ago. She was reminded of Jane's drunken insults and imitations, of everyone's sneering sideways glances at her.

"Stop it, Jane! Can't you see you're making a fool of yourself?"

Her irritation had only cheered Jane on, and neither did a slap across the cheek bring the tipsy fool to her senses. People had laughed at her, and they had laughed at Blanche. Jane's triumphant grinning face flashed before Blanche's eyes and all of a sudden she wanted nothing more than to hurt Jane, to make her feel how much she had hurt her tonight.

She watched Jane fumble with the gates, and her hand reached blindly for the gear lever. Jane had never shown her any kindness, while Blanche had always treated her with care, even though her current contract was meant to demoralize Jane. It was not fair how Jane always got away with everything. Blanche's feet searched the floor for the pedals.

It was so tempting. Jane was standing right between the car and the gates, oblivious to the potential danger she was in, unaware of Blanche's malicious train of thought. If she could just run her down, crush her between the iron bars and the nose of the car, she could make Jane pay for all the pain she'd caused her not only tonight but throughout their whole lives. It was so easy. Blanche was far too engrossed in her plan to consider any consequences, all she wanted to do was to hurt Jane. She pushed her foot down on the accelerator pedal and the car shot forward.

Blanche stared straight ahead at the white figure in the headlights as it turned and dashed out of the way with lightning speed. The tall heavy gates seemed to speed towards her with merciless persistence. Blanche's hands remained, as if glued, on the steering wheel, her foot on the pedal until an unearthly force threw her out of her seat.

The deafening crash that echoed over Hillside Terrace muffled a breathless cry of pain. A pair of heeled feet ran down the street, followed by a loud wail.

It took serious effort to open her eyes once the street was silent again. Blanche felt the cold iron frame of the windshield against her nose and blindly pushed her hands against the glass. Black and bright spots disturbed her vision; she remembered to breathe. Her breath caught in her throat when a slicing pain in her chest protested against the act. Blanche knew suddenly that she had hurt herself, remembered that Jane had gotten out of the way, that she had run away. She realized quickly that no one would come to help her. Even if Jane were sober, she probably wouldn't have called for help.

As it dawned on her that she needed urgent help, Blanche reached over to the car door and managed to push it open easily—the locks weren't working any more. She knew she had to step out of the car and go for help; she knew she was not well. She could feel a trickle of blood make its way down over her forehead, another one over her nose. There was a hot soreness in her wrists from the impact of the collision; her right shoulder did not feel good. Blanche turned slowly towards the door and was nearly blinded by another pang of agony, issuing this time from her back. Her squeal of pain was cut short by the forbidding ache in her chest. She remained leaning against the door for a long moment, trying very hard to make her legs move, so they could carry her away from there.

Moments passed in silence and soon Blanche dared to try and take a slow shallow breath. It was almost bearable. She stared ahead at the crushed gates for a little while, and then down at the asphalt of the driveway next to the car. Against her better judgement, her hands gripped the edge of the car door and she began to pull herself forward and out of the car. Her left hand reached down and touched the cool ground, followed cautiously by the right one and then her wounded forehead. But as her torso was pulled out of the vehicle, so was the rest of her body.

Her hips and legs tumbled onto her, and she grunted as their weight thrust her against the asphalt. Her neck was caught at an unnatural angle and the pressure of the legs multiplied the agony in her back. Blanche wanted to scream but she was unable to. She could only breathe enough to feel herself able to think. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate, she couldn't make her legs move. She was positive her dress had landed over her hips in an indecent manner, but that didn't matter a wit at the moment.

A couple of appalling cracks reached her ears when she moved her arms, one at a time, over the ground and above her head. Her palms felt the sting of glass splinters when she pushed them down and attempted to drag herself forward across the asphalt. She could feel the unpleasant sweet taste of blood in her mouth and her head began to spin a little.

It was hard to pull herself across the driveway—her lean arms were not accustomed to arduous physical work. There was nothing to grab on to; each time she pressed her palms down new splinters sliced their way into her skin with acute agony. Blanche could feel the ground underneath her rip the front of her dress to shreds. She was vaguely aware of her knees and ankles dragging across the asphalt, red and raw from their unwelcome journey from the car.

Blanche was starting to feel very weak. She couldn't hold her head up any more and thus enabled the ground to bash a gory bruise against her cheekbone. She was pining for the mad suffering to end already; her eyes refused to open again. Unconsciously her left arm reached out over her head once again and finally found something to grasp on to. Gathering the last energy in her body, Blanche gripped the iron bar of the gate and drew herself towards it.

She wasn't sure how far she'd come when her strength gave out and her hand fell from the gate. Her head rolled against the cold iron bar and she felt the extremely revolting sensation of her teeth sinking into her cheek. There was nothing she could do any more. Even if she could have thought of some way to ease the excruciating pain all over her body, she would have been too weak to do it. As she drifted off into unconsciousness, a vivid image of Jane's white face appeared in her mind's eye, staring at her with fright and aggrieved accusation.

She could hear them through the door of her private room—hasty teetering steps that swept through the hallway towards her. Blanche closed her eyes and prayed to God she could lose consciousness right then and there; she was in no shape or mood to see her. Not today, not ever again.

Due to the rigid bandage around her body she wasn't able to turn her back to the door. Her hands remained limply in her lap, each finger bound up neatly, as the woman out in the hall approached. From the corner of her eye she could see the bandage they'd wrapped around her head; the plasters on her face were itchy. The room reeked of liniments; the salve applied into her cheek taster bitter. It was still painful to breathe, although the doctors were fairly certain she hadn't broken a rib.

The door opened and Blanche fixed her eyes on the wall opposite of her bed. She could see her sister's slender figure in the doorway, a hand on the doorknob, her feet hesitating on the threshold. She heard her own name dropped into the silence, heavily accented by apprehension. Blanche swallowed the lump forming in her throat. That same voice had cried out to her in her dreams the last four nights, at times accusing her, then pleading with her, and then screaming. Blanche sighed, and the sound seemed to wake the woman in the doorway up from some strange trance.

Jane threw herself forward, and Blanche's instincts told her to run. She willed her legs to slide off the bed and carry her away from her approaching sister. The doctor's words from two days ago rang through her head and Blanche suppressed a helpless sob of misery. She didn't think it was possible for her to ever accept the fact that she could never walk again. It was unimaginable.

Jane knelt down on the floor next to the bed and took hold of one of Blanche's bandaged hands. Blanche hissed in pain and the older girl immediately loosened her grip. "Blanche," Jane whispered in a shaky voice. Blanche hadn't expected her to be sober. "Oh, Blanche, forgive me! Please forgive me!"

Blanche's first though was to ask what could Jane possibly feel sorry for. She'd expected her sister to come in here to scream and rail at her, to hit her, perhaps even to gloat. She had so may questions for Jane, and yet she did not trust herself to look at the blonde, lest it hurt her even more than her guilty conscience already did. And suddenly she was reminded of the police officers she'd overheard speaking outside her room the day before about "her maniac of a sister who'd leave her own sister dying like some poor animal she'd run down". Blanche's eyes widened at the horrible realization that that's what people must have been thinking.

"I didn't mean to do it, Blanche, honestly, I didn't!" Jane was saying. "I don't even remember it. Not really. Oh, Blanche, you have to forgive me!"

Blanche turned her head—as much as she was able to—to lose sight of her sister's big honest eyes and white terrified face. She hadn't meant for things to be like this. Her heart had been aching from the moment she'd woken up in the hospital bed. She was astounded at herself for being able to hate her sister so much that night to resort to murder. That was nothing compared to how much she hated herself now. She had contemplated downing all the painkillers from the bottle that the nurse had left for her on the bedside table, but it had occurred to her that to live with the injuries she had caused herself would be a graver punishment for her than death.

She hadn't thought about the possibility that Jane could be suspected of running her down. Jane had been supposed to be injured. Blanche could see that this instilled guilt on Jane's part was hurting her even more than the car ever could have. Part of her wanted to tell Jane she was innocent, and yet the old grudge that had its roots way back in their childhood held her back. If she could make Jane suffer for just a little while longer, she would not tell her the truth. She'd find the right moment for it sometime in the future. That was a silent promise she made to herself.

Jane gripped her hand tightly again but Blanche refused to make a sound. "No! Don't hate me, Blanche!" Jane cried out in panic, leaning closer in order to catch Blanche's eye. "You can't hate me. I-I love you, Blanche."

Blanche clenched her teeth together and felt a tear roll down her cheek. No matter how cruel Jane could be to her, she knew she was being truthful now. And naturally she returned her feelings—she always had. She cursed herself inside her head for being so selfish that night and so cowardly and unfair now.

"I love you and I'll… I'll take care of you. I promise. I'll always take care of you from now on," Jane claimed breathlessly. She seemed to remember Blanche's earlier response to her touch, so she, once again, loosened her hold on Blanche's hand and caressed her forearm with her fingertips. "I-I won't hurt you. Never, Blanche, I promise, just… Don't hate me. I couldn't bear it. Please, Blanche."

Blanche forced herself to slowly turn her head Jane's way. She was an actress, she told herself, and that meant she could hide her shame from her sister. The first thing she noticed when she finally looked at her was the dark bruise over Jane's left cheekbone, and she found herself momentarily wondering where she'd gotten it from. She dismissed the thought, however, as soon as she looked into Jane's expectant, apprehensive eyes. A sharp pain slashed through her chest at the sight of her sister's agitated expression, her teary eyes and parted quivering lips. Blanche tried to smile; the movement tugged painfully at the stitches in her cheek.

"I..." Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her, and she paused, reluctant to tell this terrible lie. She couldn't imagine how painful it would be to live with this guilt for a moment longer, and yet neither could she bring herself to tell this innocent loving girl in front of her that she had tried to kill her. Two large tears stole down Jane's cheeks, and Blanche felt the same happening to her. Jane's face twitched and her lips moved to form another desperate plea. But Blanche was quicker. "I forgive you."

If she'd have really been run down, it would have been less painful than it was witnessing the change in Jane's expression. The girl's face broke into a smile and new tears started pouring from her eyes. She lifted Blanche's hand up to her lips and started placing gentle kisses on each of her bandaged fingers. "Thank you, Blanche. Thank you," she whispered feverishly.

Blanche hadn't thought it possible, but she was feeling even worse than before. She didn't deserve Jane's gratitude or admiration. All she did, in fact, deserve was to live as a cripple for the rest of her life, and to suffer under the weight of her guilty conscience.

"Thank you… Thank you."

The End