Author: thelittleturtleduck PM
All her life, she had felt no one understood her. After years of ridicule, loneliness, and bullying, Jane Porter finally accepts that she is destined to be alone. Tarzan though, thinks differently.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Hurt/Comfort/Romance - Words: 1,979 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 19 - Follows: 3 - Published: 03-11-12 - id: 7916890
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: So, I have never written a "Tarzan" fanfiction before, but I have loved the movie since I was a child and this is just an idea that has been floating around within my head. This is from Jane Porter's point of view, a character whom I think is one of Disney's most interesting, and whom I think we don't know enough about. I tried my best to get inside her head and bring forth this piece in a way that wasn't boring like one may fear it would be. I hope you enjoy it, may add on, may not. Please Review.
Disclaimer: I don't own the story or characters, they are Disney's.
People talk, and would never cease to do so. People talk, but most of the time, it s not pleasant things they prefer to dwell on, in fact, it seems they go through life just looking for the imperfections in everything.
But not just in objects or situations, in people as well.
When you are a child, you see yourself playing with the other children on the playground, or even skipping down the sidewalk to the local candy shop with little bags of silver coins within your sweaty palms, you see yourself fitting in with everyone. Everyone loves you, and you even love yourself.
But that s just how you see it, that s not how it is.
Growing up in London, England, with only a professor for a father, was not an easy task. It wasn t the most ideal either.
I was born on a rainy, dreary day. Some would say that would make sense completely. I was given a plain name, I already had estasblished a dull personality, and I cried and cried and cried. My name is Jane Porter, and this is the story of a girl whom always felt as if she was alone.
When I was five years old, I already had trouble getting along with the children whom lived in neighboring houses. My mother had died a few years prior, and my poor father tried his best to fix my hair into a presentable fashion, but it never seemed to fall right unless it was in a messy bun. My dresses were never as pretty as the other girl s but he tried his best to find ones that he thought I would love.
All the other little girls had long blonde curls, and dimpled smiles. I had dull brunette locks that had no curl or shine, and a pointy nose. This did not escape the other children s attention.
I was ridiculed. They made fun of my sketches, they pulled my hair, they pushed me down in the mud, they caused several of my dresses to rip, and they would yell at me as I ran away crying, You ll never have anyone, Jane!
When I would arrive home my father would hear the same stories, I accidently dropped my notepad in a puddle, my hair was down because I lost the thread holding it, my dress was ripped because we had been playing with sticks, and my pride was hurt because I had fallen into mud.
He believed every word.
One day though, my father expressed that he would like to spend some time with me. He always locked himself in his lab, conducting experiments, skimming through scientific novels, reading the works of Rudyard Kipling, while dreaming of Africa. I jumped on any oppurtunity to spend time with someone whom wouldn t push me, or pull my hair. Sadly, my father was the only person who neglected to do so.
We went to the zoo, and I was mortified. My father had always told me bedtime stories of fantastic animals who did fantastic things out on the serengeti plain of Africa, or the ones who would swing from vine to vine in the jungles of Madagascar. These animals had no room to do fantastic things, they barely had enough space to just sit and stare blankly at you as you were suppose to ooh and ah at them.
What happened later that day, was always a blur to me. We had been walking, when I had accidently gotten seperated from my father. I saw a black gorilla, sitting alone in the corner of its cage with no one around it, no one ohhing or ahing . I felt sympathetic towards this creature, it was in a similar situation to me. I crept over to the cage, slowly and unsurely, but then it looked at me.
Brown eyes, looking into my bright blue ones. I saw the hurt, the fear, the unhappiness, the loneliness, all very human emotions on the face of this creature confined by a cage.
Hello, I whispered to the creature, a smile lighting up my features as it stood on all fours and began to walk slowly to me. I can t explain it, but I just had this strange connection with this creature as it approached me.
On the other side of the bar, it raised it s hand to wear it was pressed against the cage, at the time I thought that it was just pleading with me to get out, but I realize now that it wasn t telling me that. This gorilla was a smart creature, it could tell we were alike.
I stuck my hand up on my side of the bar, feeling the cold metal brush roughly against my soft palm. I looked up into the animal s eyes and saw understanding and gentleness, again, very human emotions. That s when my father began calling for me and I walked away, not wanting to turn back and see the sad gorilla s eyes.
That s when I became fascinated with these magnificent creatures. My father and I began to grow closer as we studied the animals in depth, we skimmed dozens of novels regarding their behavioral habits, and we dreamed of going to Africa on an expedition, together.
As time wore on, I didn t see a change in my situation. Children got meaner, and I guess I became even more clumsy and awkward and dull. By now though I had a few friends, but who knew if they really cared about me.
I arrived home after a long day of finishing school, my hair was as messy as ever in a careless bun, my dress was pink and frilly, and my shoes were shined to perfection. But on my face, a bruise was beginning to form around my eye. Sometimes people s comments hurt, but when you reply to them, sometimes it hurts them so deeply that they feel the need to act on you, and she did. Marie Conely had finally gotten to take her anger out on me after torturing me our whole childhood with her words, now she attepted to torture me with her fist even though we were young ladies now.
When my father asked, I merely said that the girls and I had been carelessly skipping around the library during lunch, throwing books at eachother for a laugh, and I got hit in the eye.
It was pathetic, but he believed it.
This was the day, I found out my dream was going to come true. We finally had accumulated enough money to take our expedition to Africa. With out bodyguard, Clayton, by our side, we said goodbye to England for the time being. I knew I was going to have the adventure of my life, but I had no idea what really was in store for me in Africa.
We arrived, and already my father could see improvements in me. Even though I was still awkward and clumsy, in the jungle I was more confident in the steps I made. Then I met Tarzan, and my life, from there on out, would never be the same.
Tarzan was raised by a family of gorillas after his family died when he was a child, he moved like an ape, yet looked like a man. He had dark, brown dreadlocks, with deep bluish green eyes that seemed to hold the wonders of the world within them. His skin was dark from the bright african sunlight, and his muscles seemed to ripple with every move he made.
I taught Tarzan. I taught him how to speak english, I taught him about the stars and about the moon, I taught him how to read, and it took me awhile to realize that it wasn t me who was teaching Tarzan, but Tarzan who was teaching me.
This was made obvious when one night I sat in my tent, the moist, African air engulfing me as I finished up the sketch I had made of Tarzan earlier. I had on my green skirt and yellow blouse that allowed some coolness, much better from the yellow dress I had debuted the day I stepped off the boat.
That s when I heard him.
There was a slight ruffle of leaves as I saw a hand reach out and gently peel back the fabric of my tent s opening. His face was the first thing I saw, the welcoming smile, the warm eyes.
Hello, Tarzan! I blushed, trying my best to hide the sketch I had been working on prior to his entrance. He stepped fully in and sat on the floor in front of me.
Jane, He simply said, throwing me a gentle smile, as he looked curiously around my room . I didn t have much within my tent, only a lamp, a cot, and my sketchbook. I could tell from his wandering eyes that he was exhausted, but he seemed to be trying to figure something out behind those eyes of his. Jane, teach?
Ah, he wanted a lesson.
So for about an hour, I wrote on my sketchpad words that stood for emotions and feelings and tried my best to explain each one to him in extensive detail. We went through Happiness , Friendship , Sadness , and Excitement . I was purposely avoiding a word starting with the word L , actually I was avoiding two that started with that particular letter. Like and Love.
I wrote down this word slowly, holding back the emotions that it held with it.
What does that mean? Tarzan asked curiously as he stared at the word with a wrinkle forming between his brows.
Well, being alone means that you have no one. Tarzan looked at me strangely as I tried to explain with more detail, Including no friends, no family, no companions, you are just alone. All by yourself. Tarzan absorbed this new information, slightly bothered by the concept.
Is Jane alone?
The question hit me hard, it hurt me in ways that one could only imagine. The word brought back all the memories of my childhood that had followed me even into early adulthood.
Let s move on, shall we? I asked quietly, avoiding the question all together, my eyes avoiding the questioner as I searched for another emotion.
We must of just sat there and ran through words into the wee hours of the morning,
for I woke up on the floor of my tent, with the door hanging slightly open. I wonder when he had left.
My sketchpad though was laying beside my hand, the charcoal sitting clumsily on it. I grabbed it without a second thought and yawned, about to turn the page when my hand paused.
On the piece of paper in front of me, written in a very messy style yet still legible, a message read, Jane is not alone.
I could only imagine who had written that.
I sat there and stared at it for a moment before smiling, maybe Tarzan was right.
After that, as you know, the rest is history.
Turns out, I never was alone.