By Natalie Smith
The cool air sweeps into the room and attacks Aurelia’s sweater, though the soft, thick fabric wins out against the breeze. She sits in a purple armchair, with her legs crossed and slouching against the compressible cushions. She takes an unopened letter from her basket on the small wooden side table besides her, examines it, and carefully rips the seal so as to harm the envelope as little as possible. Inside, she finds two letters and a photograph. Aurelia opens the first piece of paper, placing the other contents carefully onto her lap. After adjusting her black-rimmed glasses and curling her stray hair behind her ear, she calmly begins to read the first letter.
“To the esteemed Storytaker Aurelia,
I am glad to hear that someone with such a heart as yours exists. When I heard about your project, I could not help but agree with your idea on many levels. As someone who has lost someone I loved to suicide, seeing a project that would recognize my loved one and their story even after my own life will someday pass, has helped me heal and mourn for them. I feel as though this collection of yours will remind those who have left us for the other side that they are important, that they will be remembered, even though they did not value their life for themselves.
To provide some background for this letter, I have kept it and cherished it for years, as I lost this person in my life when I was only 21 and she was 18. The person who wrote this letter, Jamie Woods…she was my closest friend at the time, and I hers. I knew so much about her, all her secrets, and yes, even those dark feelings she held internally. I thought that I could save her, that if I loved her and cared for her enough, she would see just how important she is to me. In the end, I was told afterwards that the only person that could have saved her is herself. That was difficult to accept at first. If I wasn’t able to save her, wouldn’t it have been my fault for not doing enough? Couldn’t I have done more to save her? It took lots of time and therapy to accept that I was not responsible for her life, even with as much as I cared about her. The only person responsible for her life was her, and I can say that now and believe it, though parts of me still echo, “But you could have done more…”
I also feel obligated to inform you that if you have received this letter, I have already joined Jamie on the other side. I could not bear to part with this letter during my lifetime, in the events where I wanted to think about her and remember her importance to me. I requested in my will that this envelope’s contents were to be mailed to you, so I do hope that it actually does make it there. Good luck on your project. Please stay strong and thank you for remembering those we’ve lost.
Best wishes,
Poppy Haden
Aurelia examines the photo enclosed, of two girls with their arms around each other, smiling. A small grin breaks out on her own face. There was happiness present there at one point. These two enjoyed each other’s company, that much was already apparent to her. Continuing to visualize the image of Poppy and Jamie in her mind, she opens up the more fragile letter, more tear-stained than the first. Written in a less legible handwriting, Aurelia deducts this letter was written with panic, almost like a rush. The Storytaker’s smile dissipates into an unreadable line, as she starts reading Jamie’s letter.
“Dearest Poppy,
I apologize if this letter has reached you, but I must have hit my breaking point by then. Poppy, you know I love you so much, and I am sorry that I was unable to communicate this to you before my death. But I was too scared. Too scared to tell you. Too afraid to become a burden to those I love. I hope that you find some comfort in this letter knowing that I thought about you and that I trust you with all of this information after my death. I am sorry that I did not entrust all of it to you when I was alive, but that cannot be helped anymore. I am terribly sorry.
The thoughts…they are so much now. Telling me life is meaningless because we’re trapped here. As much as I can dream of faraway places with diverse sets of happy people, I cannot give that role to myself. I can manipulate my imagination but I cannot control my own life as I please. I finally am beginning to accept that, and the scary thoughts that come with them. “You have no purpose.” “You’re just going to die anyways.” “Why are you even here?” They repeat over and over again and I want the thoughts to stop. I’m trying to stop them and stay here with you, but, well, if you get this, then that means the only way I could get away from them was death. I’m sorry, Poppy. I’m sorry that I’m…or I guess when you read this…I wasn’t strong enough.
I must thank you for all that you have done for me. You have made me laugh and smile even in the roughest of times, and I cannot thank you enough for all of those sweet moments. Thank you for gracing my memories with your presence, and for allowing me to love you as I have. Thank you for the mutual care that I did not believe I would find in this lifetime.
With so much love,
Your friend Jamie
Even after all these letters that she has read, all these people she has memorialized, tears still hug the Storytaker’s eyes in silent comfort. Aurelia closes her eyes, pulls the letter close to her chest, and takes a deep breath. This story, it reminds her of others.
It reminds her of Harry King. Harry King was suited to his name; he often imagined himself as a king. From his last letter, Aurelia had learned that Harry worked at a grocery store, and imagined that each task was serving his people and feeding them in a time of crisis, sometimes blaming this crisis on war with a neighboring kingdom and other times on an unfruitful crop season. He took this story to heart, tried to make it a reality, so he worked his best to satisfy customers, deeming them as his people asking their king for aid. The King family describes him as someone with a big heart, someone whose empathy took hold and made him feel responsible for others’ well-being. However, in Harry’s poverty-stricken town, not even his big heart could save everyone. His escapism into his kingdom where there were resources to help everyone was able to keep him sane and believe he was making a difference, until reality began to wear down on him. As Harry explained in his note, more and more the thoughts came—that he was no king, only a grocery store worker with little influence on the lives of others. On that last day, he had continued to serve customers with a smile, but when he got home, the thoughts took over, he wrote his letter, and then took his own life.
It reminds her of Kieran Johnson. In life, Kieran was told she was a successful businesswoman. She had a nine to five job corporate job, where she spent much of her time in her office alone, doing tasks that got her a decent paycheck and her own nice apartment in the city. Feeling alone and lost in the corporate world, she started to daydream. They started short but then one stuck: she was a pirate and she sailed the world on many adventures, with freedom to visit where she wanted. She loved that story and it developed along nicely, to a point where she felt confident she could write about it all instead of just living it inside of her mind. Yet, after each day of work, she would return to her equally lonely apartment and her plans to write would be canceled out by her need for sleep. Sometimes, she had explained in her letter, Kieran had woken up the next day with the light still on, not remembering when she fell asleep. The office life kept her stuck drowning in the same, daily tasks, the ocean becoming too overwhelming. Kieran felt the freedom and adventures she strived for in her stories were not possible for her, not while she was attached to the corporate chain. In the end, it became too much and consumed her like the river where she jumped.
Slowly, Aurelia stands up out of the comfortable violet chair and walks outside of her quiet office, into the gallery. Her footsteps methodically lead her to her destination, the part of the collection where Jamie would have been able to recognize herself in others. Perhaps she would have found friends among Harry King and Kieran Johnson. They all experienced the separation from reality, that appeal of escapism, and the sore disappointment of how their life actually was. Yes, the Storytaker believes that Jamie and Poppy belong here, so she nods in confimation and walks to the Display Studio to prepare to move their words to this wall with the others.
Entering the Display Studio, a man with dirty blonde hair leans over a table, carefully aligning a letter within a frame. While still focusing, he greets, “Hey Aurelia. What do you have for me this time?”
Aurelia smiles, “Two letters and a photograph that came together today. And I’m thinking that Jamie and Poppy’s story belongs in the idealistic escapism section near Harry and Kieran. Whose display are you working on now, Whittaker?” Passing the frames, pieces of wood, and papers organized throughout the room, Aurelia approaches the table and watches Whittaker cautiously apply the back of the frame.
He replies, “Celia Pews.” After securing the back of the frame, he turns it around so Aurelia can see his work and exclaims, “Ta da!” The Storytaker examines his work and gives him a thumbs up as Celia’s story comes back to her, where the suppression of her sexuality and the rejection she faced because of others’ hatred and lack of understanding caused her to devalue herself immensely. Aurelia’s smile becomes solemn and she hopes that Celia is now finally free in the afterlife. Whittaker brings her back to the present task at hand, asking, “So can I read the letters you brought me?” After a second to process, Aurelia nods and hands him the papers.
Whittaker pushes up his glasses that had shifted down his face from his framing task, and then glances over the letters. As soon as he reads the beginning of Poppy’s, he mentions, “I still find it weird that you are called the Storytaker because it sounds like you are taking all these stories for yourself. Except you don’t. You share them with the public. We all work to share them.”
Aurelia explains, “It’s a play on Undertaker, remember? Because we memorialize people here, specifically through their stories.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Whittaker responds while rolling his eyes mockingly, “But it still sounds weird. I’m a Display Maker, at least that job title is straightforward and makes sense. The more I think about it, you’re just a very specialized curator.”
Playfully with a slight smirk, Aurelia counters, “Well, I also created this place so I can title myself however I want. And as obviously noted by Poppy’s letter, the name stuck with the public, so I’m going to be called that whether you like it or not.”
“Alright, whatever. You win, Aurelia,” he surrenders, “Now stop distracting me and leave me to my work since you were so kind enough to bring me even more to do.”
“Oh fine,” Aurelia sighs sarcastically at the Display Maker. She opens the door, and says, “See ya Whittaker!” to which he replies with a quick smile and wave. With that, she leaves the Display Studio on her way back to her office. Jamie will be remembered, according to Poppy’s wishes. And in turn, Poppy will be remembered too for her kindness. Aurelia smiles with satisfaction, adding them to her mental list of those she has helped continue to live through their memorialized stories.
Natalie Smith 