Books used to be a huge part of my life, my room was my library and libraries were my sanctuary. Elliot and I used to spend our time in the library, him reading sports magazines or history books, pointing out facts to me while I became lost in the world of the book I was reading, completely forgetting where I was and how long I was there for.
Most of the time Elliot had to drag me out kicking and screaming because the library was closing and I hadn't finished my book. He always had to promise to go there with me the next day just so I could finish it.
Even when I used to watch Elliot training my head was buried in either a literary book or one of this history ones Elliot loved.
But now books were hard. It was hard to find the motivation to read, it was hard to find the interest in books and it was hard to get out of bed without feeling utterly exhausted and lethargic. It was hard reading when whatever I read reminded me of the library I sat at with Elliot, reading while he was at rugby training, him reading history books and becoming Wikipedia when he'd start spitting out facts like rappers spit bars.
Most of my day was spent staring at a blank wall, my mind overthrowing me and hissing nasty and depressing thoughts in my ear. My mind was my own worse enemy, it reminded me of everything Elliot and it forbid me from doing anything that wasn't staring at my wall.
It's so hard to not believe what your own kind is saying to you. It's in your mind, you're telling yourself these things so surely they must be true. You believe your mind because it's one of the things that you've had your entire life and you'll have for the rest of it.
Your own worst enemy lives between your ears.
Bath was the next stop on our tour. The Roman built town named after the huge, calming and alluring Roman baths in the city. I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering when we drove through the city, the beautiful Roman and Georgian architecture gleaming and mesmerising me. Spikes and stone buildings stood out, the beautiful and picture perfect river was something out of a fairytale, the medieval looking bridge standing tall and allowing crossings.
"Isn't Jane Austen supposed to be one of the best authors in the history of books?" He scrunched his nose as we walked around the museum dedicated to her life and books and movie adaptations.
He had insisted this be our day out in the city, somehow knowing Jane Austen used to be one of my favourite authors.
"She isn't supposed to be." I narrowed my eyes at him while he read one of the plaques. "She is."
He hummed. "Sure she is. I bet she was famous during her time."
"Jane Austen wasn't recognised for her books until after she died." I said firmly, staring at him in disbelief for his lack of knowledge. "All her books were published anonymously because in that time, who would want to read a book by a women? Women were so undervalued and just seen as housewives and child bearers and anyone who wasn't married wasn't seen as anyone important, like women in general. That's why she was an anonymous author. But instead of accepting that she never married and never had children they come up with theories and excuses, yes one of them might be true, but it's such an outrage that she didn't marry that they have to come up with stories and reasons as to why she stayed single. She wrote six major books that are amazing and opinion changing, they conquer female inequalities in a time period where women were only seen as objects and property, they weren't seen as humans, they were only discussed for marriage and children. Imagine that, being in the Georgian era, their only duty is to have children while Jane Austen was out there writing these inspiring and life changing books that showed women to be strong willed and fearless. They are arguably the best books ever written but that doesn't matter compared to her not ever marrying."
Inhaling, I gathered my breath from my rant and glanced at Jackson who appeared to be smiling, his sapphires brighter than before, sparkling and mesmerising me.
"You're incredibly opinionated on this topic, dare I say... passionate?" His smile widened as I cut our eye contact, shrugging.
"I just like Jane Austen." I sniff, rubbing my nose. "Plus most of it is written on the plaques."
He hummed again, this one teasing and lighter while he nudged his elbow against my arm. "Sure."
He didn't believe my lie and quite frankly, neither did I. I didn't realise how much knowledge I still had on the topic and I didn't realise someone disrespecting it could cause such a passionate speech to occur.
When I was younger I couldn't help but idolise Jane Austen. In my eyes she was fierce, creating these strong willed characters in a time period where women were inferior to men.
Life had changed a lot since then but in a way women were still below men. Unequal pay, employers not hiring women because of children and that stereotype of women belong in the kitchen. We were still seen as objects by some but at least now some of us had courage to speak up and to live our lives the way we want.
A woman who has children is judged based on her ability to be a mother, based on her age, her relationship status, her job. A woman who decides to have no children is judged because how could a woman not want kids? It's our instinct, and some would say our purpose, to have children.
Whatever we do, we are judged. That's the reality so at the end of the day we should do whatever the hell we want, seeing as whatever we do someone is going to have something to say.
Reading Jane Austen's work and seeing her create such amazing and strong female characters in a time where women weren't anything but objects and child bearers, it was inspiring and eye opening. We weren't in the same time as Austen anymore but the troubles for women still remained.
"She used to inspire me, okay?" I mumble out, reading another plaque about her life, opening up a little.
"Does she still inspire you?" He asks quietly, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.
Shrugging, I stare up at the costumes on display. "I haven't read in a long time but at the moment nothing really inspires me."
I didn't have the motivation to be inspired. Before everything that happened, Elliot had to pry the book out of my hand because I was simply always reading. Books were my oxygen. But now oxygen is my oxygen and books were the carbon monoxide that was sent to poison me.
The brought memories of Elliot that I didn't want. They extracted my energy like sucking air out of a balloon. I didn't want to read books and I couldn't read books.
We left the museum a while after, walking around and visiting the beautiful city we were in before going back to the bed and breakfast we had booked. We both readied ourselves before leaving for the rugby game, this time I packed an extra jacket and made sure Jackson took the blanket again.
It was fairly easy to find our seats in the brightly lit stadium, the sky dark and gloomy, not a star lit and the moon hiding, probably scared by the bright lights that seemed to go on for miles.
"I got you this." He murmured after the national anthem, handing me a copy of Pride and Prejudice.
"What?" I stared down at the brand new copy of the book, my fingers tracing the smooth illustration of a womans face. "Why?"
He shrugged, sending me a small smile before grabbing the blanket from his bag and wrapping me up in it once again. Instantly warmth cocooned me and I nearly sighed in relief, the bitter cold of the night not biting me. "I saw it in the gift shop. I want you inspired again. I also brought more of her books, and other books so you can read while I watch the rugby."
I didn't know what to say. For the first time in the longest time, I was speechless. My finger kept absentmindedly tracing the book, my frozen heart thawed just a little, the warmth from his gesture melting the ice.
"Thank you." I mutter, staring down at the book, my eyebrows creasing.
"Don't push yourself." He adjusted the blanket around me. "If you can't read it then that's fine. One step at a time, Eliza."
Inhaling deeply, I opened the first page of the paperback book, the feather-light page feeling more like a block of iron. My fingers shook slightly as I read the first sentence of the page.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
And with that, I was sucked out of the real world where there was shouting and cheering. The sardine packed stadium vanished as Austen's nineteenth century world captured me, luring me with every word.
I didn't notice the glances Jackson sent me as I curled up on the uncomfortable seat, my knees up to my chin as I read, not at all paying attention to my surroundings. I didn't notice the fifteen minute intermission where so many passed me to get to the stairs.
Before I knew it, the game had ended and I was half way through, just starting a new chapter when Jackson brought me back to reality with a tap on the shoulder, a smile gracing his face and his sapphire eyes brighter than the stadium lights.
"Time to go." He whispered softly, taking my bag once again, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and allowing me to continue in my reading, keeping me safe as we exited the stadium, him guiding me to the car.
And before I knew it, my head was against the window, Jane Austen's words ringing in my ear while my eyes drooped and sleep swept over me.