I don't think I've seen any stories like this around, and this concept really got me thinking. This is my first attempt at writing (on this site), so here goes nothing.
All characters Twilight related are not my property, I'm just using them for the purposes of this story. Same goes for all references to historical events/figures/songs. (I don't own them.)
Chapter 1
My boxes were scattered across the otherwise empty room, stacked haphazardly. I kicked the one nearest me, and heard the gentle thump of what sounded like my stack of old journals that I kept strictly for sentimental reasons. I'd never actually filled up a journal before, though I made several attempts. The box I kicked held at least a dozen small notebooks or diaries, ranging from my childhood scribbles to my lame attempts at poetry from a few months ago.
The box just sat there, and I'm not sure what I wanted from it at the moment. The box didn't really deserve the angst-filled release I had just given it. It's not the box's fault I was sitting there alone in an old house in an unfamiliar city.
I had my mom, Renee, to thank for that. She decided at the end of my junior year of school to follow her boyfriend of one year, Phil, up to Chicago. Phil honestly was a nice guy, so I understood why Renee decided to relocate when he was traded to a Chicago minor league team from the Phoenix team he was playing on. Her contract as a teacher at the local elementary school was up, and despite the difficult times, she was able to find a teaching position open at a daycare in the Chicago area.
I followed her because my only other option would be to move to Forks, Washington and stay with my dad, Charlie, who I really only associated with awkward conversations during my summer visits, which ended right before I began high school.
I sat down in the room and looked at the bare walls. The house remained uninhabited for a while because the previous owners had died, and the house remained on the market during the housing crisis. We got the place for a steal, but some maintenance was required. I'd have to get some paint from the hardware store to cover up the cracking, faded walls.
The only thing decent about my room was my familiar light blue bedding, which I brought from Phoenix. Renee had made my bed for me, somehow maneuvering the awkward mattress despite her small frame. Renee could be a bit irresponsible at times, but she still loved me and went out of her way to do little things for me.
"What now?" I said to myself, sounding a bit idiotic. I'd never really talked to myself, and to only hear my voice in the room somehow made the situation a little lonelier.
Renee had asked if I wanted to go out tonight and see a bit of the city with her and Phil, her boyfriend, but I declined, thinking that I wanted to be alone and get my room in order.
I don't know if I knew what I wanted. But, as Renee and Phil were already out, I really had nothing better to do than unpack a little and make this house seem more inviting. I sighed and found my stereo in one of the boxes and plugged in my iPod, turning on some music. I danced a little as I unpacked the contents of each box, beginning with the one filled with my journals because, honestly, I felt bad for kicking it earlier.
As the stacks of boxes started getting smaller, I began to dance a little more; the familiarity of my possessions made me more comfortable. As I turned to change the song on my iPod, I hit a floorboard at a funny angle (I was never really graceful, so it was only a matter of time before I hurt myself dancing).
As I sat on the floor, cradling my ankle in an attempt to assess the damage, I looked at the offending floorboard. It was slightly tilted, with a corner rising about half an inch above the other floorboards. I crawled towards it, my face inches from the floor. Something was definitely up.
I tried to push the board down so it would lie uniformly with the others, but it wouldn't budge. If I couldn't push it down, then, I thought, I could pull it up and see what the problem was.
I tried to pull it up, but it was stuck. So, naturally, I tried to claw it out, a few of my fingertips bleeding a tiny bit as I tried to grasp the wood. I'd probably regret that later, I thought as I tried a new angle. This time, I pushed upwards on the board with the heels of my hands.
The board lifted enough to where I could pull it out carefully. Once free, I put it to my side with a resounding knock. I peered inside instead of blindly putting my hand in- I had seen enough Indiana Jones to know that putting your hand in a small hole only got you bitten by a giant spider. And I hate spiders.
Inside the small, exposed region was a photograph and a journal. The photo was black and white, with three people in the frame. It was a small, old, and worn, so I had to squint to make out the people. There were two men in the picture, and one woman.
I put the photo to the side and looked at the journal. It was really dusty- I ran a finger across the leather cover, and was disgusted by the amount of grey on my fingertip. This was a job for Kleenex. I brushed off the dust with the tissue over my trashcan, and collapsed face down on my bed, my stomach on the cover and my feet in the air.
I opened the cover and looked at the first page.
Edward Masen
Huh. He must have been the owner of this journal. I turned the page and found the first entry of the journal. I wavered slightly before looking down at the words. I began questioning myself: Should I be reading this journal? Would Edward mind?
Even if he wasn't alive anymore, there were probably some relatives that would love this intimate look at their father, uncle, what have you. If my grandma, Grams, had a journal, I reasoned, I'd love to read about her life, as she had died before I understood (as all children eventually learn) that other people had lives before I came into the world.
But then again, what else was there to do? The house was empty, the satellite TV wasn't installed… and I really hated unpacking.
I bit my lip and looked around the room once more, before reading the first entry of the journal.
January 1, 1918
Holy crow! Was I reading that right?
I examined the ink, and there was no smudge. The date really read 1918. It was over 90 years old, I reasoned out, doing the quick mental math.
It's a new year. Mother bought me this journal as a Christmas present; she had mentioned that when she was about my age she began writing in a diary. I really see no reason not to try I, as I can always stop writing in it whenever I wish. I thought that this new journal should begin with a new year. A clean slate, so to speak.
The war is still going on in Europe, and my classes resume in just under a week. I haven't seen much of my friends this holiday break. One of them, William, dropped out of school to work full time. He had just turned seventeen- his parents decided that he had learned enough to function properly in society. He plans on joining the army in a few years. Father says that it's only a matter of time until eighteen year olds will be allowed to fight. I look forward to the day, but Mother always ends the conversation whenever the war is discussed.
I'm not looking forward to the return of school. What will Latin and History do to help me when I'm in the trenches? Father won't have 'any of this nonsense' because he thinks my education is important to help me get into college, so I can be a lawyer like him. I'm only sixteen and he's already planning on my going out east for my education.
I'm getting tired, so I think I'll end this entry.
I looked down at the page written in flawless cursive. I didn't think I remembered how to write in cursive; my training in that department lasted only a few months in second grade. According to my teacher, we needed to know cursive because every adult uses it. How could she know that texting would eventually change the way we write, and instead of taking the time to loop our "L's" we'd be shortening words to almost unrecognizable acronyms?
Edward's story intrigued me. He was writing from a period of time I'd never given much conscious thought to. When I thought of the past I pictured one of three things: hoop skirts, World War II, or ancient Romans. That's not to say I wasn't knowledgeable about history; it's just that the History Channel never featured long segments on the turn of the century. It seemed like they always skipped from Lincoln to FDR.
I looked at my room: I still wasn't completely unpacked and my music had stopped playing, most likely because my playlist had just ended. Renee wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, so I turned the page and resumed my reading.
January 14, 1918
I often forget to write in this notebook. Other times, I'll open it, but what would I write? Nothing of importance has really occurred. Father's got yet another case, so he's been working more than usual. Mother has been volunteering at the church. So that leaves me here alone a good portion of the time.
I know how you feel, buddy, I thought wryly to myself.
Today I decided to go for a walk, though it is bitterly cold and windy outside. Mother finally gave me the coat that was supposed to be a Christmas present. She hesitated upon giving it to me, and insisted that she get it tailored, as I have grown at a rapid pace these past few months. She says I'm going to be as tall as my father one of these days, and I think I like that idea. He's a tall man, but also quite large. I'm secretly hoping that I don't get as wide as my father.
I guess height is the one thing I'll have in common with my father. I'm always identified as "Elizabeth's son" because I share her coloring. Although, in personality I guess I do resemble my father. We're both quite introspective and quiet, while my mother could have a nice conversation with anyone, or host a party at a moment's notice.
When I was walking, I decided to take a random path. There were few people outside: the occasional delivery boy, some people coming back from their jobs, some children playing in the snow, only to be admonished by their parents and dragged inside.
I eventually reached the part of our neighborhood that has more shops than homes, and quickly entered the music shop. I greeted Mr. Blackwell, the owner, and asked about any new selections.
He quickly showed me the jazz section. Many were reluctant to try the new songs, apparently, but I was open to the change. When St. Louis Blues became a common song a few years ago, I was immediately intrigued by the new style.
In the end I bought one jazz song, one ragtime song, and a book of Debussy's Preludes. I'm anxious to get to work on the preludes, but mother loves me to play the piano for company, especially the songs that they can all sing along to.
I heard the door open, so I closed the journal quickly. Renee's head peered into my room.
"Hey Bella," she said, a large smile on her face.
"Hi Mom. How was dinner?" What I really wanted to know was why she was home so early.
Renee's grin wavered a bit. "Phil surprised me. While walking around the city, oh it has such an amazing energy, Phil proposed to me." Her smile was broad once more and she paused shortly. "Isn't that great?"
"That's fantastic, mom!" I said as I walked over to her to hug her. "Really, that's wonderful."
She squeezed me tightly for a second and then let me go. "I wanted to come back here shortly to tell you. We actually have dinner reservations we need to get too…" She trailed off, assessing my reaction.
"Go! Have fun!" I said, nearly shooing her away from my room.
She gave my arm a small pat and left. When I heard the front door close behind her, I flung myself on my bed.
Renee wasn't old- she had me at a young age with Charlie, which led to their shotgun marriage, which led to their eventual resentment and divorce.
So having a new family with Phil wasn't out of the question- Phil had never been married and was right now coaching at the high school I'd be going to in a month. He loved kids.
Therefore, it'd only be a matter of time before they'd want their own.
No matter what was going to happen with Renee and Phil, I really didn't want to think about it at the time. There would be enough time to stress about it later. Besides, I wanted to get back to this journal.