Unwritten

Unwritten: Ida Jean Gallagher

The years had changed Ida Jean.

Today, Ida Jean maintained that she was bland. Sometimes she attributed it to her upbringing, but that excuse fell away when she realized she hadn't always been bland. As a child, Ida Jean had tackled life with an unusual enthusiasm. Her parents recalled her crawling out of her crib as a toddler, refusing to sleep and forcing them to put a tarp over the top; they told stories about her scaling playground equipment, sticking her head between banister supports, waking earlier than anyone in the house and lingering in the kitchen with the lights off. She'd played board games when she should have been napping and attempted to ride their dog like a horse. Ida Jean had undeniably changed to become the sedentary creature her family now knew.

But in those days, Ida Jean had faced a different set of problems. She'd been too enthusiastic; she'd dwelled too long on those facets of life she cared about that her thoughts had driven her mad. Anticipating family vacations had kept her up late into the night; likewise, excitement for her fourth grade school days had prevented her from sleeping, to the point that she feared not getting the sleep she needed to properly enjoy her classes. Her parents had told her to calm down, but the thoughts had continued to hold her captive at night.

That same year, Ida Jean had fixated on Christianity, too. Before, she'd embraced the safety of a life protected by God, but she'd started to agonize over her own small sins—sins like saying she'd practiced piano for forty minutes when she'd spent five going to the bathroom, misremembering details when writing autobiographical essays and accidentally lying. By middle school, Ida Jean had become convinced she'd go to Hell, and the thought had terrified her. Combined with the beginnings of a suicidal-leaning depression, as well as the fact that "all children go to Heaven", Ida Jean had formulated a failsafe plan to get into Heaven—she'd only need to die a child.

Ida Jean's mind had been voracious. It had driven her to explore, thrust her into the most exciting moments of her life. It had also led her to ponder concepts far past the point of comfort. When an eleven-year-old child considers suicide, something needs to change.

So Ida Jean had changed. Her mind had grown duller, more weary; the energy had been sapped from her so that overthinking anything was simply too difficult. Instead, Ida Jean thought of nothing at all, and she felt nothing at all, and that was better.

Dissociation is not a good strategy, and Ida Jean, in the wake of the real treatment she'd recently obtained, had started to reverse the damage. Shutting herself off for years had left her blank, but Ida Jean was willing to let color seep into her world again. Ariston's Resort was a start—writing had made her whole before, and it might again.

But she'd need to be careful. She understood the consequences of failure.

The beach was strangely empty when Ida Jean arrived that morning. The website's pictures had featured beaches packed with guests, implying that she'd need to arrive early if she wanted a shaded chair. Instead, the shores were barren, and Ida Jean found herself lying beneath an umbrella at nine in the morning, alone.

She'd left her laptop in the room. Until she pinpointed what had happened to her the afternoon before, she would not type another word of her novel. To occupy her time, Ida Jean had brought two books, which she would switch between depending on her mood: Northanger Abbey and a collection of Irish fairy tales. Of course, considering her abnormal predicament wasn't off the table, either.

The night before, Ida Jean had ruled in favor of the paranormal. While she couldn't be sure something otherworldly had forced her to write her novel, the takeover of her brain couldn't be explained otherwise—supernatural involvement was likely. Upon realizing this, the excitement that had filled Ida Jean had been akin to that of her old self. A paranormal presence should have frightened her, but the implications of her ordeal only inflamed her—doors were opening that she hadn't expected, leading to a world she'd never considered. For once, the possibilities were endless, and Ida Jean was willing to tackle the challenge of sifting through them. (She still wouldn't write, though. She'd been reluctant to type even a good-night message to her mother.)