Stuck Still through Time

OK, this cannot be that bad. All I have to do is walk in, just walk inside. A black wooden ivory wall guards the bookshelves lying deep within. Although I haven’t been here for years, I don’t need to open the door to know what is inside. Yet here I am opening it. I am holding the handle, maybe I should run away, it is not too late to run away. But no, here I go, I will open the door. And when I walk in, I will walk in. I will walk in to find seven long bookshelves. The same bookshelves that my father, and his father before him painted and repainted and rehabilitated over so many years. My great-great-great grandfather had made them apparently. But who needs to think about that anymore, they are all gone now. All of them. When I finally opened the door, the, bookshelves had disappeared, they had had escaped this room when my mom and I first moved away from here. And yet the smell is the same. How can that even be? A new family lives here with a dog I never even owned and yet, the room smells the same. That oaky smell of burned wood from the sunlight drilling into the wooden walls. That smell of sweat and garlicy dinner leftovers escaping from the bodies and mouths of immersed readers and talkative researchers. The feelings evoked by this room have not change either. If I would close my eyes, I think I would feel like a ten-year-old again, so I better never blink.

OK, one foot after another. I can do it. One more step and I am technically inside the building. I can do it, I physically should be able to do it. And yet, I am still, waiting for someone else to force me inside, because there is no way I will be able to willingly step in on my own.

Ok, one more ste – a bunch of elementary school boys ran into the bookstore. They came here on their own, started running towards the room and took their steps inside. I guess a lot has changed after all. I look down, expecting to see the cement, and realize that I got pushed in. My right foot is officially inside the wood. And I push my left foot to follow the first, to follow the children springing to the books on top of unrecognizable shelves. To follow the scent of old people and sweaty youth. To follow my gut as it fell to its knees, I followed it all and took a step aiming to the wooden ground. I walked in, I walked in by taking a baby step, and I wish I could go back.

I wish I could go back to when I was ok with this place. A time when I too, could run through that line created between the wood inside and the cement without having to lose my head in the process. But going back to that time will also bring back everything I have been running away from. In that second, where I could run inside as a ten-year-old, I would run through the door alone, trying to run away from some boys in my class. I look at the boys in front of me today. They are playing inside. I see the store owner stopping them. I see them staying even though they can’t play. A frown is stitched on their faces, and yet they stay. They could leave. They are clearly not happy of the new prohibitions placed on them. But they don’t leave. They choose to stay. All this, just for books? No, that cannot be true. That isn’t true. There is no way. Not for books. Never would they give up their comfort for those of others. Not in my time, anyway.

It took me a while to breathe again after witnessing those pests. Pests who stayed in the store. I think I held my breath when they first bumped into me, but now, I can take a breath again. I can take a breath. I can do this. I just need Time. Time, please be kind to me. I know you will never let me down. You get your job done. You move on. I hope to be like you someday.

Sadly, I am nothing like Time. I am Still. I am still a ten-year-old. I am still scared. I am still here.

And I closed my eyes by habit.

And there it is, my childhood. It should be black behind my eyelids, but it is as bright as the sun that is picking on the walls of the bookstore. I am still in the store right now, right? I should be. I still see everything; just, only as it used to be.

A sigh escapes my mouth. And then I hear a scream. I look to my left. Why did I even look, I already know what that was. And yet my head turned. And just like that, I witness again, that morning when I came to visit my dad. His body sprawled on the floor, a pistol in his mouth and a pool of blood cushioning his head. I turn a little and see my mom, looking straight at me, bruises on her arms and face, with cuts on her forehead and cheeks. I turn my head again and I see her laying down with her eyes closed, in her death coffin. Exactly like how she was in the funeral. She was the most beautiful 40-year-old woman, and her beauty was apparent even after her death. Even her taxidermy looked like a Michelangelo statue. I look away from the dead bodies to my right. I see me in my classes, to my left. I see me crying in my locker. I see me running away from knuckles and feet. I start remembering it all.

I open my eyes. I had to escape. I have to go. But I stay still. Funny, isn’t it. How your brain controls your body, and you are a soul attached to your current carcass. And yet you cannot control anything about yourself. What is the point of having a soul anyway?

Exasperation fills my mind and I become sleepy. Maybe something is taking over me. The wind bashes its body through the open door and extends its tentacles through the small openings of the closed windows. Books fly off of shelves and the furnitures contort themselves back to what my grand-grand-grand grandfather had intended them to look like. The room crumbles inside of itself, getting a little bit smaller. There are fits of black and white and brown everywhere. I am overwhelmed by the force of the wind. I think I am drowning from oxygen if that is even possible. In one second, the whole world collapsed into colours of grey, black, and brown… and blood red? Oh no. I cannot go back. Oh Time, I thought you would never fail. Why are you doing this to me. What have I done to you? I was Still, but you were supposed to help me move. You were my fuel. And now you have brought me back, why would you stop working with me? I needed you.

A rush of wind knocks me down and fills my lungs. My lungs push it out, rejecting it. And then they dare beg for more. I look down at my hands. I don’t understand what is happening to me. I cannot go back to this time. Not again. Why do you continue haunting me? Why do you want me to be Still. Why can I not leave you behind? Why would you do this to me? I am too weak to fight again. I can’t do it. I have to go back. I can’t live this ag –. I turn my head. Is that me?

That’s me, I look to my right, and I found me. But I am younger. I am ten, aren’t I? I am ten again. I should not have blinked. I told myself to not blink. In the dark, where I can’t see, my ghosts always come back to haunt me. And now I blinked. And I stayed at that stupid bookstore. I stayed at the place where my dad worked and lived in and his dad before and his dad before and his dad before and his dad before. All the way back to the man that first created the seven pillars of my family wealth. Bookshelves that were never found again. Not inside anyway.   

I look at my younger self. I stare at him for a while. He looks so lonely. What is he holding? I guess old habits die hard.

A young woman is carrying a plate of cut apples. She came from down the stairs and stopped in front of my younger self. I can’t see her face at this angle, but I don’t have to. My mom comes to me and pats my head. She gives me the plate and she kisses my forehead. And she leaves me.

And then, my younger self screams. I look behind me to see my dad coming in the room. He had opened the ivory, black door and was holding a bottle of Heineken close to his chest. He takes the bottle and smashes it to the wall, shattering half of the glass and sprinkling it all over the floor. The rest of the bottle is attached to sharp glass knives. I see my mom coming in from the above level, panicking and screaming at my dad to not make another move. She is guarding me, using her body to create a shield between my younger self and my dad.

Wait, what happened? Am I back to the present? Everything came back to its original place. My mom and dad are gone too. I look down on my hands. I look around the bookstore. The bookstore that is owned by the other family. The bookstore that is crowded with customers. Everyone inside the store is staring at me in confusing and disgust. I realize how sweaty my hands are. I touch my damp armpits to see if there is a stain. There is also a stain on my shirt collar. I think I am crying too.

I run out. Why do I have to pick up my childhood objects? I don’t need them. I have not had them for years. Why should I try so hard to recover things that have no use for me? Why go through that discomfort? I guess I am just as selfish as the same kids who hurt me at age ten. I guess the pests in that bookstore are better than me. That does not feel good.

Time gives me more memories. Memories of my past. I see it. I see the bullying. I see people clearing from the bookstore when they see me. I see my dad and mom talking, burying their face in taxes and eviction notices. I see my dad drinking. I see him beating me up. I see my mom protecting me. I see it all. Except now, I am willingly thinking about it as I walk further and further away from that haunting bookstore. I see my mom, Pandora, hesitate to go outside of the store. And I see her finally doing it. I see her and I see her hold on to my left hand, both of us escape the bookstore. I see the seven bookcases escape with us as well. All of us leaving behind the ghosts of my father’s ancestors.