The Story of my life

When you see a dusty red book that has your name on the front with your birth and (what you assume to be) your death date, you have to open it, right?

That’s what I did.

Big mistake.

This story begins in a library and ends, well, we’ll just have to find out together. I’ve not written it yet, and you’ve not read it, so no skipping to the end to find out.

I went to the library because I wanted a new book to read. A Kindle is fine, but nothing beats feeling the paper on your fingers, smelling the ink, especially of older books and seeing the stamp in the front of the book. Seeing the dozens of people who’ve read and gone on this journey before you. It’s an experience that is being lost in the digital age and one I’ve always been fond of.

My local Library was a grand old building. Built sometime in the 1800s, it was a school, then a Hospital and then a Library. The building itself has nearly as many stories as the books inside. The inside of the building had been modernised in places, but still retained the original architecture, meaning there were small side rooms dotted around.

I was browsing the Adult-literature section, flipping past the John Grishams and the Tom Clancy’s, looking for, but struggling to find something that really took my interest.

I wandered down a corridor and into an unmarked room filled with large dusty tomes. I’d always had a fascination with big old books, like they held some secret from a time long ago.

I ran my hand over a few different books when I settled on a small red tome about the size of diary covered in cobwebs and dust. Without really knowing why, I decided to dust off the front cover. As I did, golden embossed letters revealed themselves, and to my surprise, uncovered a name, “Jacob McCallister.” My name. I chuckled quietly to myself. It wasn’t a unique name by any standards. I’d grown up with another McAllister family in my school, and as far as we were aware, we weren’t related. I dusted off more over the cover and revealed a date “1992.” My blood froze, and I took a deep breath as I took in what I was reading. I was born in 1992. What the hell could this mean? Next to the 1992 was a hyphen, and I could just make out under the layer of dust the “20” of another date, with the final two numbers obscured by dust. This had to be some kind of joke? This was what you put on a grave, born 1992 - died 20?? I was taken aback and more than a little confused. If this was a joke, then what was it for? The sensible thing would be to move away, leave the library and forget any of this ever happened, but curiosity got the better of me, and without realising it, I found myself opening the book.

The opening page read “The life and times of Jacob McCallister” and below it was a contents page with chapter numbers and titles. “Chapter 1 birth”, “Chapter 2 - Thomas McCallister” (my brother), Chapter 3 - “Divorce and Scotland.” My parents divorced in 1999, and I moved to Scotland with my mum and Brother from our family home in Dorset to be back near my Mum’s family. My head was spinning at this point. I wasn’t sure what was happening. I slipped the book into my coat pocket and made a swift exit back to my car.

I got back home and pulled the book out again, deliberately trying not to look at the date on the front, whatever this was I didn’t want to know that end date. Looking through the chapters, more things stood out to me “Chapter 8 - Sara Delaney, First kiss.” “Chapter 13 - Teenage kicks.” I decided to look a little ahead. I was 34 now so everything so far had already happened. “Chapter 36- Loss.” That one didn’t sound good. So far each chapter roughly lined up with major events in my life. “Chapter 28 - The book.”

I flicked through and opened the book to chapter 28 “When you see a dusty red book that has your name on the front with your birth and (what you assume to be) your death date, you have to open it, right?” This was today, as it happened as if I was the one writing the book. In all honesty, this raised more questions than it answered. If this was right, I was writing my own story and then I left it in the library for myself to find? I read on “It was at this point that Jacob realised he was writing his own story.” It was at this point that I realised I was going to need to start writing this book at some point. I sat down, pulled out my laptop, opened a word document and typed “Chapter 1 - Birth” and began writing.

“Jacob Benjamin McCalister was born on a rainy 3rd March 1992 to Alice and Kyle McCalister. Raised in Dorset…”

Over the next few days and weeks I filled up the document with more and more until I finally caught up to the day I found the book. I finished the chapter and stared at the page. The last sentence I had written “he sat down, opened his laptop and began to write” was staring back at me. This was it. I had written everything so far, but the book wasn’t complete, I realised now that everything else was yet to be written, as it hadn’t happened yet. Should I take a sneak peek ahead and see what’s to come? Would knowing my own future change what that future was. I’d seen enough Sci-fi films to know that knowing the future isn’t always a good thing.

I picked up the book and flicked ahead a few pages from chapter 28. The pages beyond today were there, but empty, as if waiting for me to decide whether they would ever be filled.

I started writing again. The very last chapter: Chapter 100 – The Return.

I wrote of printing the pages, of binding them into a small red book. Of rubbing dust into the cover so it would look old enough to be ignored. I described walking back into the unmarked room, placing it on the shelf, and leaving without looking back.

Only then did I understand.

The book was never old.

It only looked old.