small zap of static
electricity sparks the tips of my fingers, and I jump back.
The student starts and whips her head around to look up at
me. Her pupils dilate then contract rapidly, twice. “I’m sorry.” She shoves
papers into her backpack, hands shaking.
“Are you okay?” The image of her eyes haunts me.
“Yes, fine.” The quiver in her voice indicates quite the
opposite. “Just fell asleep.” She grabs her coat and slips by me, heading for
the front door.
Asleep. Possible, perhaps, but my insides feel burnt. From
the electric shock, that’s all.
The student left the book she was reading, still open. I
touch the page. A mixture of cold and electricity shock through me. I yank my
hand back. Strange. Water stains mark the edges of the page – another victim of
the flood.
“Leda? Is there a problem?” Fran asks.
I jump and squeak, spinning to face her, pressing my hand to
my chest. “No, no problem. But you surprised me.”
“Sorry.” She smiles and turns to walk away.
“Wait.” The girl’s eyes and reaction nag at me. “What was it
the student who caused the flood said when they caught him?” Fran told me the
story when I started my job here only days after the flood. A student had
purposely busted a toilet on the second floor late one night before closing. No
one noticed until the next morning. His excuse for his act rumbles below the
surface in my mind, vague and odd – I don’t quite remember it.
She places a finger to her chin. “He had to destroy the
books before they destroyed us.” Anguish ripples across her forehead, eyebrows
drawing together.
I understand how she feels. How can a book destroy us?
Harming one would be like stabbing a friend, one who’s given you nothing but
joy, never asking for anything in return.
But I remember the books lined up along every available
table, like fallen soldiers, opened in the hope that the pages would dry and
they could be saved. Many couldn’t be.
“Crazy, right?” I ask.
Fran shifts her weight and looks at the book on the desk
beside me. “Of course. He merely snapped due to finals.”
Sad. Almost as sad as the books lost to his madness. Books
offer new life, new insights, not destruction.
But I asked the question for a reason – that girl, the
trance. I shudder again. No, the two incidents couldn’t be connected. She fell
asleep. Yes. Fell asleep.
I flip the book closed with a quick flick of my wrist and
hustle away, Fran following. It’s been a long night and my exhaustion tugs at
my mind. Time to go home and get lost in my own book.
* * * * *
I’m already jittery, and my palms start to sweat when I see
what’s before my apartment door. A vase of a dozen white roses gleams under the
hall’s fluorescents. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to allow any tears to
escape.
This has to stop.
I pick up the vase and pluck out the card from among some
baby’s breath. “Love, Sean.” Simple and to the point, just like him.
I gather up the flowers and battle with the deadbolt – the
landlord refuses to fix it, even though it’s lined with rust and hard to turn. Once
inside, I place the vase on the table among the scattered mail.
Sean insists he only wants a chance.
I met him at a local fantasy convention two weeks ago. He
made me laugh, hell, made the convention more enjoyable, and the last night I
allowed my usual barriers to drop, ending up in bed with him.
I immediately regretted it the next morning.
Relationships always fall apart on me, my craving for
solitude and my bookishness destroying what tenuous connections I create.
People hurt, break my heart – unlike books. I’d rather travel to the ends of
Earthsea with Ged than risk being cheated on by the Jays of this world because
I need to “live a little” – at least that’s what he said when I caught him in
bed with my roommate. The day I graduated college, I swore I’d stick to my
books for companionship. No more pain.
I’d hoped Sean would chalk the
electricity sparks the tips of my fingers, and I jump back.
The student starts and whips her head around to look up at
me. Her pupils dilate then contract rapidly, twice. “I’m sorry.” She shoves
papers into her backpack, hands shaking.
“Are you okay?” The image of her eyes haunts me.
“Yes, fine.” The quiver in her voice indicates quite the
opposite. “Just fell asleep.” She grabs her coat and slips by me, heading for
the front door.
Asleep. Possible, perhaps, but my insides feel burnt. From
the electric shock, that’s all.
The student left the book she was reading, still open. I
touch the page. A mixture of cold and electricity shock through me. I yank my
hand back. Strange. Water stains mark the edges of the page – another victim of
the flood.
“Leda? Is there a problem?” Fran asks.
I jump and squeak, spinning to face her, pressing my hand to
my chest. “No, no problem. But you surprised me.”
“Sorry.” She smiles and turns to walk away.
“Wait.” The girl’s eyes and reaction nag at me. “What was it
the student who caused the flood said when they caught him?” Fran told me the
story when I started my job here only days after the flood. A student had
purposely busted a toilet on the second floor late one night before closing. No
one noticed until the next morning. His excuse for his act rumbles below the
surface in my mind, vague and odd – I don’t quite remember it.
She places a finger to her chin. “He had to destroy the
books before they destroyed us.” Anguish ripples across her forehead, eyebrows
drawing together.
I understand how she feels. How can a book destroy us?
Harming one would be like stabbing a friend, one who’s given you nothing but
joy, never asking for anything in return.
But I remember the books lined up along every available
table, like fallen soldiers, opened in the hope that the pages would dry and
they could be saved. Many couldn’t be.
“Crazy, right?” I ask.
Fran shifts her weight and looks at the book on the desk
beside me. “Of course. He merely snapped due to finals.”
Sad. Almost as sad as the books lost to his madness. Books
offer new life, new insights, not destruction.
But I asked the question for a reason – that girl, the
trance. I shudder again. No, the two incidents couldn’t be connected. She fell
asleep. Yes. Fell asleep.
I flip the book closed with a quick flick of my wrist and
hustle away, Fran following. It’s been a long night and my exhaustion tugs at
my mind. Time to go home and get lost in my own book.
* * * * *
I’m already jittery, and my palms start to sweat when I see
what’s before my apartment door. A vase of a dozen white roses gleams under the
hall’s fluorescents. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to allow any tears to
escape.
This has to stop.
I pick up the vase and pluck out the card from among some
baby’s breath. “Love, Sean.” Simple and to the point, just like him.
I gather up the flowers and battle with the deadbolt – the
landlord refuses to fix it, even though it’s lined with rust and hard to turn. Once
inside, I place the vase on the table among the scattered mail.
Sean insists he only wants a chance.
I met him at a local fantasy convention two weeks ago. He
made me laugh, hell, made the convention more enjoyable, and the last night I
allowed my usual barriers to drop, ending up in bed with him.
I immediately regretted it the next morning.
Relationships always fall apart on me, my craving for
solitude and my bookishness destroying what tenuous connections I create.
People hurt, break my heart – unlike books. I’d rather travel to the ends of
Earthsea with Ged than risk being cheated on by the Jays of this world because
I need to “live a little” – at least that’s what he said when I caught him in
bed with my roommate. The day I graduated college, I swore I’d stick to my
books for companionship. No more pain.
I’d hoped Sean would chalk the
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