Status: Drabble.
Anonymous
messages lost within the pages of a book
The musty smell of an old book engulfed me when I opened the cover, ready to immerse myself in the beautiful words. I began to read and hours passed without me realising, stuck in the amazing world of people and creatures and love I could not even begin to imagine. My own world was one of that remains the same, day after day of dreary repetitiveness.
Halfway through the book, on page 132, I saw words scribbled down the side of the page, some of it in blue pen and some of it in black. There was even some in red. At first, I was shocked, wondering why anyone would blacken the page of a beautiful book with their own words that did not belong there – but then I started to decipher them.
The first message in a blue pen that didn’t work that well said, There is only so much I can do. This is my last call for help. Soon I’m just going to break and then I’ll be gone. I bit my lips, wondering exactly what the person meant by gone. Did they mean dead? Or were they going to run away to somewhere else?
A message scribbled after that in loopy writing said, Don’t give up. I’ve felt the same way. Trust me, you’ll get through it. Just hold on for a little bit longer. I smiled slightly, knowing this person who’d written back probably didn’t even know the person with the blue pen.
The rest of the messages, whether they be in red or blue or black pen, whether they had messy or neat or scribble-like handwriting, were full of support, ready to lend a hand to whoever it was who had written the first message. It was inspiring, how all these people, who didn’t even know this person, were reaching out to help in the only way they could.
I took out my own pen and wrote down my message to join the rest – There’s always someone there to help. Then I closed the book, deciding not to read the rest of the story.
The next day, news swept through our school that someone had committed suicide, someone by the name of Lucy. I didn’t know her personally, but I’d seen her before once or twice. One of my friends, whose mother knew Lucy’s mother, showed me a photo of the note she left behind.
It was the same blue-pen handwriting of the person who wrote the first message in that book.
Halfway through the book, on page 132, I saw words scribbled down the side of the page, some of it in blue pen and some of it in black. There was even some in red. At first, I was shocked, wondering why anyone would blacken the page of a beautiful book with their own words that did not belong there – but then I started to decipher them.
The first message in a blue pen that didn’t work that well said, There is only so much I can do. This is my last call for help. Soon I’m just going to break and then I’ll be gone. I bit my lips, wondering exactly what the person meant by gone. Did they mean dead? Or were they going to run away to somewhere else?
A message scribbled after that in loopy writing said, Don’t give up. I’ve felt the same way. Trust me, you’ll get through it. Just hold on for a little bit longer. I smiled slightly, knowing this person who’d written back probably didn’t even know the person with the blue pen.
The rest of the messages, whether they be in red or blue or black pen, whether they had messy or neat or scribble-like handwriting, were full of support, ready to lend a hand to whoever it was who had written the first message. It was inspiring, how all these people, who didn’t even know this person, were reaching out to help in the only way they could.
I took out my own pen and wrote down my message to join the rest – There’s always someone there to help. Then I closed the book, deciding not to read the rest of the story.
The next day, news swept through our school that someone had committed suicide, someone by the name of Lucy. I didn’t know her personally, but I’d seen her before once or twice. One of my friends, whose mother knew Lucy’s mother, showed me a photo of the note she left behind.
It was the same blue-pen handwriting of the person who wrote the first message in that book.