One Chapter Ends

Chapter Nineteen

The story wove itself.

Behind all the raw emotion she was still experiencing, Hazel was in awe – nothing she had ever written had been this easy. That just cemented her belief that this was what she was meant to be writing.

The words flowed out of her fingertips like they were made of gold. It was like she was painting scenes with letters, each one more eloquent than the last.

She could see her parents' faces appearing, their colours both kind and worried... her bedroom, a safe haven in the creams and sunshine yellows of hot summer days...

Brian, with his greys of age and uncertainty, yet illuminated by a gentle contentedness... the dark threads giving way to brighter tones that painted Charlotte's transition from miserable teenager to hopeful young girl...

The bookstore, drawn in warm vintages that spoke of musty bookshelves and old records... the light-hearted shades showing Scrabble club, in all its relaxed competitiveness and friendship... Juniper and Keith, one described in roses and pinks, the other in more traditional, almost grouchy colours...

Ali, Jonah, Ryan, Scott and Haley, their good-natured banter and close-knit dreams shining through in shades of green...

The growing up she'd done by acting her age and letting her hair down, her struggles with university, the personal battles she'd fought all in the name of writing – she could see all of those in light blue and turquoise hues, colours she associated with the future...

And finally, the most painful of all – Theo. He was a veritable rainbow of words. A light blue for hope, joyous gold, emerald for the luck she'd felt in finding him, lilac for shared grief... Crimson for fights soon regretted, navy for tears shed over him...

And behind it all, her own colour: a deep, fierce scarlet.

Hazel saw it all flash before her eyes as she typed out her story. It was shorter than she would have made it, had she not been intending to read it aloud, but it was enough. She knew it was enough. The words felt as though they were being drawn out through her chest, her heart stretching and arching against her ribcage.

It was a dull ache and, at times, she felt tears gather at the corners of her eyes. But she couldn't stop.

Days passed and she showed up at the bookstore every day to type, leaving any customers to Renée and Charlotte. A quote by Hemingway flashed across her mind, the same quote that she'd thought of the day she finished the first draft of Brian's memoirs.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

And so she bled. On and on and on.

And on the fifth day of typing – two days before the open day – she finished her story and bound the pages in string.

Three hours later, once the store was closed, she and Charlotte were on the road.

~

"You ready?" Charlotte asked, tilting her head at her. Hazel stared at the door of the community centre. Six metres away. I can do this. I can walk six metres.

Six metres wasn't much. It wasn't. Hazel tried to focus on that fact, ignoring the nagging thought of what would be lying beyond the doors.

"Yeah. Let's go." Before she could lose her nerve, she shoved her door open and stepped out, her short story tucked securely under her arm. Checking once to make sure that the envelope was still tucked into the string, Hazel slammed the door shut and locked her car, following Charlotte up the path to the centre.