Passion for Perfection | Open Novella Contest 2019

5. A Helping Hand

Like a calm before the storm, life got a bit better. It was like getting a second chance and I was determined not to waste it. Not this time.

My mother pulled out some old boxes from my room and I spent a few days going through them. They were mostly textbooks. A few notebooks and pencil cases could be found if you searched hard enough. As I sat there for hours, I didn't find anything of value to me.

Until I reached the last box.

It was sealed with thick tape and someone had written "Don't Open. Jane's stuff"  in permanent marker on the top. It wasn't hard to guess who had done it.

I eagerly grabbed a pair of scissors and swiped across the tape, easily cutting through it. I opened the box and pulled it towards me to look inside.

There was a pile of books inside, only they weren't school books like all the others in the surrounding boxes. No, they were hardback copies of anthologies by some of the most famous poets. Some were modern, while others contained poems written over a century ago.

I had forgotten about my short-lived hobby. It was the only pastime I had, apart from studying and learning. Poetry was so simple to write, so simple to read and simple to understand. It could express emotions that couldn't be put into everyday words.

I took out the worn out hardbacks and started flicking through a few of them. I smiled as I was able to recite most of them from memory. I realise now that it was probably a sort of coping mechanism. A way to express my emotions.

At the very bottom of the box lay a tattered notebook with dog-eared pages that had started to fall out. I gently opened it and froze.

The first page read: A Poetry Anthology, by Jane McCormick.

I started flicking through the pages, my frown deepening with every scribbled poem inside. I didn't remember this. As much as I loved anthologies, I didn't remember ever writing my own poetry.

I flung the book back into the box and pushed it across the room. It wasn't mine. It couldn't be.

It was your handwriting.

I didn't write it. I had no knowledge of it, therefore it didn't happen, right? It didn't make sense otherwise.

Or so I thought.

***

I made a tough decision a few days later. I knew my mental health was still at its lowest, therefore I decided to contact a therapist, against all my natural instincts. That little voice at the back of my mind still screamed to not show weakness, to be strong and independent, but I was done with that. I was done being strong. It hadn't gotten me far anyway.

Despite my sudden determination, my knees still shook as I stood outside Dr Sarah Carter's home. It was a regular terrace house with two floors and brick walls; the kind you always find in the older parts of big cities, probably from the Victorian era. The noise of traffic roared behind me and my brown hair whipped wildly in the sudden wind as I faced the tall door.

Be brave. You can do this.

My heart rate slowed for a short second, which was enough time to raise my hand and knock firmly on the door. I could hear the sound echoing inside and shuffled footsteps followed.

The door was flung open with a flourish and a cheery voice greeted me. "Good afternoon, I hope th— Jane!"

In the doorway stood Sally. The same Sally who had been my only friend throughout high school and always had a moment for me. Now that I think about it, it's like she was my guardian angel: always protecting me.