Ida's Secret, Unfurled

Lily had not expected for her godmother to leave her entire book collection to her once she died. Her mother had come to her apartment—a desolate and empty place now that it was never to be graced by Ida’s presence—letter in hand, eyes red from crying and glistening with more tears yet to come.

Despite Ida’s fervent passion for literature, she always kept her library close, not allowing anyone to come near enough to brush a finger across a single spine. Lily had found it odd when she was younger, but it quickly became a normality, and expectation in her and her godmother’s relationship. The loss of such a dear friend and guardian alike was still raw, and Lily was desperate for any new thing her godmother could possibly give her. Some semblance or evidence that all of her is not yet gone. So she grasped the letter from her mother’s hands and quickly read its contents.

My dearest Lily,

I am angry at this world for not allowing me to be with you for every second it gives us, but alas, time demands payment. I must leave you to face this world, though I hope you remember I will always, always be with you. Yes, in all the cliché ways each poet has desperately tried to explain. But also tangibly, for I want to leave you something. Something that is so much of me that I hope it will serve as a semblance of myself to keep you company. Without hesitation, which not long ago I would have possessed, I have decided to leave you with my entire collection of books. However, as you will soon discover, it is so much more than just a book collection. I hope it can bring you inspiration and comfort alike. Now, let me explain the story of my library. We both know how much we both love a good tale…

Everyone in my life knew I would forever be surrounded by books in one way or another. By six years old, I was flipping through any book-like object I could find; magazines, cookbooks, bibles. I had a particularly upsetting experience around age eight when I found a beautifully thick book poised on a shelf in an antique store that turned out to be a faux book decoration that someone might hide secret letters or documents within. I could remember the gold edging and delicate design etched into its spine, giddy at the prospect of a story as entrancing as its cover. The disappointment that came from realizing its true purpose was devastating, but it has since held an abundance of stories otherwise too expansive to fit in one singular book. For it was all I could do once I had devoured the stories I chose from my weekly library visit. I began to write my own. 

They started as spitting images of the ones I held dearly; a strong heroine on a quest, a desperate prince fighting off dragons, fair maidens dancing through the night. The early stories that bled from my young self’s pens could hardly be described as my own. I often used lines I knew too well and weaved them into my own amateur writing. I began to pluck unassuming characters and animals from the books scattered across my bed, putting them in every imaginable—or unimaginable—situation. Snow White stepped in to solve a mystery when the renowned Sherlock Holmes came down with a mysterious illness. Winnie the Pooh visited a distraught maiden and by the use of his magic, transformed her old and mangled clothes to dazzling garments that brought her to the ball of her dreams. 

The stories of these notions were short, fantastical scenes wrenching favorite characters, plots, and ideas into alternate universes. I would scribble them down in notebooks, ripping each out to fold neatly and hide in the faux book I had grown to love. My young self was glad to give it the glorious purpose of hiding my childish ramblings. But soon, my stories outgrew the book, and I outgrew those stories. Stuffed immensely full with scraps of my indulgent stories, the golden-etched book was given a spot next to all of my real books—collected from small bookstores, relatives, and long overdue library loans—and had stood there ever since, holding a hundred musings of my pre-teen imagination. 

Time continued its path and my interests bled away from the well-known characters I grew up with. While my body changed, my imagination did too, but my stories were still there if only slipping on a new skin. They transformed into new ideas, different from any I had read before. Sure, there were commonalities within them that hinted at a past novel I had loved, but these truly felt my own. Of course, as the teenage adolescent mind demands, my stories were led by the one and only Ida. Long gone were the other-wordly protagonists. I was the center of almost every story, hero then villain, princess then warrior. I had no idea who I was or how I fit in during these years so I put herself in every possible circumstance. I played at being the hero, saving a damsel in distress and courageously facing off dangerous monsters, but most notably often fancied writing myself as the vengeful villain. Looking back, it is easy to pick out the inner rage I kept bottled up, only letting it be spilled through the inked version of myself. She burned villages down, sent countless men to the gallows, did unspeakable things like never marrying, refusing the identity of motherhood, even stealing babies from poor townspeople when they disobeyed her rule. The angst and selfishness of my teenage years bared its teeth in these stories, sinking into innocent storylines and fantastical lands, leaving them darkened and cursed. 

As many teenagers tend to do, I refused to share these stories. They were a reflection of the change happening within my body and my mind. I had never really shared my writing in my faux book, but these felt different to me. They bore my ugly thoughts and laid out the depths of my disturbed feelings, scratching at them until they were raw. Still, I felt proud of my stories, some almost as long as the many novels I had then overflowing in every corner of my bedroom. I would reread them, some days having a whimsical daydream of one day sharing them with the world, though such musings were often brief, for I felt the world didn’t deserve my stories and wouldn't treat them with the respect they deserved. I cherished the characters I made up all on my own, the ones who existed with me not only in this world as ink on a page, but flesh and blood within my stories, side by side with my written version of self. 

These cherished pieces of writing filled many pages, unable to fit within the faux book that currently held the sweet musings of my child self. So I found a new way to hide these stories. Each page was slipped between the pages of my favorite novels. No one ever touched them but me. I knew each one as if they were my own children (which I swore I’d never ever have). How they smelled, each story behind every crease and rip, the ones I split open more often than the others. Where else would my own stories be safe if not wedged in between every one I had ever loved so dearly? They were mine and mine only, staying hidden from the world while simultaneously existing in between countless fictional worlds. 

I didn’t dwell often on why I desired to hide away all that I wrote. It was a habit, something I had always done. I never felt guilty or ashamed that I never shared them, they were mine after all. Another extension of my own body that was sacred to only me. It felt good to have something for myself. Even after my angsty teenage years, I often felt unable to feel connected with much else. Nothing and no one ever stuck around long enough to burrow deep enough in my heart to bring such satisfaction. I think now that it was fear that kept those pages hidden. Some of them might have been silly or dramatic, but they were so deeply connected to me that I must have had a protectiveness so powerful its grasp would never let up on those stories. 

I continued to write after finally reaching adulthood, a feat so wondrous in the eyes of eight-year-old Ida. My collection of books grew and I devoured those just as fast as I spilled out new ones. Each was placed in between those pages, earning their rightful spot in the growing library hidden away. The urge to write seemed to grow stronger the more I aged. Perhaps it was the introduction to new experiences that fed this hunger. Or maybe, as I have often imagined it, I was born with all the sets of words—the sets and sets of words, sentences, and stories—already within me and as I grew, they fought harder and more desperately to spill out from me. This itch to write was hardly ever satisfied and I found myself writing straight onto the pages of my books. No longer were my ideas and stories nestled between the printed words. Now they joined them, sometimes adding to the present story or taking on completely other musings. I sometimes laugh at how desperately I scribbled away, filling notebook after notebook and resorting to filling every possible margin in my books. I’m not confident that anyone reading them now would find much sense in them, even myself. That is how my writing took shape through most of my young adult years. Often incoherent, sometimes fantastical, but always from the soul. My stories were filled to the brim with characters and ideas that seemed to eat at my mind, gnawing until they were released, finally living as ink on a page. 

I wrote almost everything that came to my mind, and with the solitary life I led, there was a lot of time for my imagination to run wild. This house allowed for deep contemplation and immense boredom, all eased by the constant friend my pen and paper brought me. I kept writing, always hiding my stories in some way. I never wanted to dedicate one singular notebook or even buy another faux book to make into a real one. It felt too official, like I was purposely creating them to be read. In truth, all I was doing was building an exterior version of my mind. A computer of sorts, following my entire life through fantastical and whimsical stories. 

Pages upon pages of hidden meanings and characters that reflected that particular time in my life. Most of everything I wrote had a hint of truth to it. That is something that I have noticed looking back. As much as I tried in my older years to distance myself from my stories, something I never thought of doing, it never stuck. Something deep within me seemed to always bleed into my words. So of course, I could never share them. Someone could read a line, squint at a particular character too much, and discover the inner workings of my identity. The right reader might uncover and unearth every twisted, complicated, or wistful part of me. I was not ready for such a meticulous examination. Not when I was a teen, adult, or even a year ago. But now, as I write this to you, most likely days from my end, I know that all those parts of me would approve. My young eight-year-old self would be giddy at the prospect of someone reading my outlandish plots. My teenage self would finally feel at peace, knowing someone out there finally saw what monsters crawled at her heart, up her throat. My disorganized and distressed adult self would be proud that I finally let someone in, even if it took these death-bed-musings to prompt me. 

I am in no way assuming you will find any of these stories—or more accurately, ramblings—amusing, or even entertaining. I only wish that you compile them, maybe read a few. Give them the attention of someone other than myself. Let them feel the gaze of another human and maybe they will finally be content. They are a part of me that I hope will never die, those words. I have come to terms with my death, though my soul aches to leave you. I refuse to feel ashamed that I hid so much from the world, I only feel as though I can finally let them go because I will not be here to keep them company. Stay for a while and let me tell you a few more stories. Let them live long; longer and more unfurled than I ever dared to. 

With all my love,

Ida