After Hours

The library was completely and utterly still after hours.  The only thing that could be heard was my boot lightly tapping the leg of the desk and my frenzied pen scratching my journal.  22 hours.  This was how much time I had before my story was due.  I had procrastinated until I could no longer postpone it and now suffered an awful case of writer's block.  The task ahead of me was to write a cultivating article about a new art gallery that had recently opened in the city.  In theory, it didn’t sound like a hard task but subconsciously, I was uninspired and overwhelmed.  My mind ran circles while my pen frantically doodled my paper.  The fluorescent library lights did not ease my anxiety.  They cast a glow on only me, causing me to feel like an actor on a stage, trembling and under tremendous amounts of pressure.  The corners of the library were dark and eerie, the books looked as if they were staring back at me, urging me to get distracted. I gripped my hands on the side of my desk and pushed back, suddenly standing.  In a frantic state, I  began to pace around the shelves, the room spinning around me.  

I was imagining my brain as eggs being scrambled on a frying pan as a certain book caught my eye.   It’s silver spine glistened in the lights, reflecting in the corner of my eye.  I spun on my heel and slowly crept back towards the odd book.  I examined it before I reached out and grasped the book in my hands.  It was heavy and the cover was a rich velvet texture, soft but old and frayed around the edges.  I opened it up and was immediately shocked by what I saw.  I jumped backwards and dropped the book on the wooden floor.  Cursing to myself, I took a step back.  My mind had to be playing tricks on me.  I had been awake for nearly 30 hours and this had to be a delusion caused by my state of mind.  The opening page of the book contained a photo of myself.  It pictured me sitting at my desk, eyes wild and nervously biting my pen.  My curly red hair was frizzy and falling over my face.  Puzzled and becoming paranoid, I quickly glanced around the room, expecting to find someone with a camera watching me.  I had heard stories of women beings stalked and kidnapped.  Hell, I had written those stories and I knew how they typically ended.  After a few moments of hyperventilating and stealing nervous glances at the library exit, I gained the courage to pick the book back up.  

I said a silent prayer and opened the book back up, once again staring at myself.  I held my breath and flipped another page.  On the following page was a list that I began to read. 

Never travelled the world…

Let work ruin long term relationships...

Didn’t take the editorial internship in college…

Didn’t stand up to middle school bullies…

The list went on and on for several pages.  I shook my head in confusion.  This sounded like a list of regrets.  I thought to myself that the internship part was odd because I also had an editorial internship when I was a graduate student.  I didn’t understand until I finally flipped to the last page.  

You weren’t with Mom when she passed. 

I gasped.  This was a book of my regrets.  Every single thing I had ever regretted or felt guilt for, was written on these pages.  This had to be the effects of sleep deprivation or maybe I was in a state of stress induced psychosis.  There was absolutely no way that it was possible someone had written a book of my personal regrets throughout my entire life.  I had never even discussed my mother’s death with anyone.  My fingers trembling, I set the book down and picked up another.  

The same picture of myself was on the first page.  

The approval of your sister…

The executive publisher position… 

To forget the stress of your career…

My hopes and aspirations.  I flipped pages until my fingers hurt but I came to the same conclusion.  This was a list of my goals.  I tossed the book aside and continued reading the rest of the shelf.  My secrets.  My friendships, relationships, everything there was to know about me.  It was all written on these books.  My picture was in every single front page.  My heart sank lower and lower and the sense of impending dread took over my entire body.  I ran to the center of the library, panicking and spinning around.  The library felt like it was swallowing me whole.  I ran to the exit, ready to bolt through the doors, abandoning my laptop and work.  I shoved the door violently, a silent scream caught in the throat.  Locked.  I ran back to my work space, fumbling around for my phone.  A No Service icon lit up the right side of my screen.   A groan made its way out of my throat and I sank to my knees, feeling hopeless and confused.  Had someone been watching me work? How did they know these things about me?  There was absolutely no way the library contained every fact about me.  That was insane and I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.  I curled up into a ball, breathing heavily and trying my best not to cry. My eyes closed and I eventually drifted off into the deepest sleep I had ever had.  

I dreamt of a giant white room.  It had shelves, but was bare of books.  I felt lighter than ever and didn’t feel the confusion and panic I had when I was awake.  I slowly walked around until I found a single book, floating above me.  I floated up and grasped it in my hands.  

You have reached the end.  Stop Searching for the peace you will not find.  

The rest of the pages were blank.  The peace I will not find?  Somehow, in this dream, I understood.  Between my workaholic lifestyle and constant anxiety levels, it was no surprise I felt as if I was going insane.  And the guilt I felt around my mother’s death.  It was never ending and I constantly felt as though it would swallow me whole.  I needed to let go.  I would never feel content or worthy if I let go of my stress and my guilt.  I pulled the book close to my chest and walked away from the white walls…

When I woke up, I was groggy and my head pounded.  Remembering where I was and the events of the previous night, I suddenly stood and bolted to the shelf I discovered.  I picked up a book and was met with the cover of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.  I grabbed another.  Pride and Prejudice.  There was no sign of the books I found the night before. I backed up from the shelf and reluctantly turned around.  I opened my phone and found that I now had service.  A look at myself in my phone’s camera was proof of my state of distress.  My hair was knotted and wildly strung around my face.  My under eyes were bruised, a shade of purple and blue.  My cardigan was slung over only one shoulder and I picked up my laptop slowly.  I nudged the exit door and it swung open.  Were the events of the previous night the cause of sleep deprivation and stress? Or was it something else, like divine intervention? I wasn’t sure at this point.  Feeling like a new person, I took a last glance at the library and turned, walking into the dawn sunlight.