Loves Written Words

Victoria Hawthorne is an ambitious writer, but when she finds a secret door in the library, her life is turned upside down when she finds a boy who has loved her for years.

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1. A Book Entitled Victoria

I’ve always found writing in journals to be a release of emotion, sort of like something I could never say out loud. After the passing of my father it became more important to me than ever, keeping countless journals in the 20 years I’ve been able to write them.  Some handwritten, but most of them typed as it became so much easier and less time consuming, though having that notebook in my bag was simply a get away from this busy world.

I looked up from the notebook on the table to see my mother, staring into her morning coffee. Our eyes met but not a word was exchanged, I knew she needed time; it had only been three months. I reached out and softly took her hand in my own, and she smiled.

“Would you like scrambled eggs?” I whispered, letting go of her hand.

“That would be lovely, yes Victoria” she looked back down into her mug and I could tell that she was struggling. I couldn’t help but feel down, everyone hates seeing their parents sad, but when all the sadness of two parents is confined in one, it makes that process much harder.

About half an hour later and the eggs were cooked, and we were sat back opposite each other again, in silence. I looked down at the journal next to me and flipped it open; to the same entry I did every time.

 

October 20th 2017

My dad died. He’s actually gone. After months of him suffering I thought it would never end. In some sense I’m relieved that he’s not in pain, or hurting anymore, but I need him now more than ever and I know I can’t have that. I guess I’ll have to get on; he wouldn’t want me to be angry or miserable.

 

As much as I love journaling, sometimes I hate writing my feelings down, that was my shortest entry in this book.

“Are you heading down to the library today love?” my mother stood up and collected the dishes up and took them into the kitchen.

“I am yes, I always find it easier to write there surrounded by all those books,” I brushed off the crumbs from my legs and picked up my journal. My dream was to become a successful author, but I was in a rut. My mother came back to the table with her laptop to do her work. We shared a smile, and I headed off to collect my bag. “I’ll see you later mum” I went back and kissed her on the cheek before heading out to the car.

 

*  *  *

 

When I arrived there was no tables in the main area, so I headed further towards the back of the library. Finding no more tables I turned around to head back out and find a coffee shop, but instead found a door. It wasn’t particularly fancy, just a regular library door, nevertheless, I felt a strong urge to open it and go inside. The room smelt of old books, floor to ceiling shelves with those ladders that are on tracks around the room. Every book looked exactly the same, dark brown leather binding with a tie around it, and each one had a name on them.

“I wonder if theres one for me,” I whispered to myself.

“Theres one for everyone.” I spun around, dropping my bag in the process to see an elderly man, hunched over the table.

“How long have you been there?” I asked, my voice wavering in shock. He looked up at me, smiled, and then back down at the book he was writing. He was using a feather quill that shook with the slightest movement of his hand.

“Since 1974” he must have heard me scoff in disbelief as he told me the last president he knew was Richard Nixon, and asked me who the current president was.

“Its Donald Trump” he stared at me for a few seconds before laughing out loud, “I’m one hundred percent serious! He is!” I chuckled as the man wiped away the tears from his cheeks.

“Well, miss, lets find your book.” He stood up and placed his hand on my shoulder, just how my father would if I was feeling anxious. He reached out for the ladder and climbed up. It swung around and he picked up a book from the middle shelf. It was bound like all the others, dark brown leather and the tie. This one looked untouched, no frayed edges or folds in the paper. Along the spine of the book was my name, Victoria Hawthorne, in gold calligraphy. “Here.”

“How did you-?”

“Never mind how. Just sit, and read.” He smiled softly as I nodded at him. I bent down to pick up my bag and when I looked up, he was gone. I shook my head and made my way to the table in the middle of the room. I sat down and placed the book in front of me. I opened the book to find a contents page. Chapter one, Birth. Chapter Ninety-Four, Death.

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