Sundew

TW: Mild gore

Sarah gasped. What was this place? The bookshelves were carved out of wood, swirling patterns and shapes caught her eyes before she continued with her inspection. At the far end of the room sat a cozy crimson couch and on the desk next to it, an old-looking lamp with a glass shade. Dust motes floated through the air and covered every surface. None of the books she had seen thus far had covers, but when she pulled them out, each had a simple illustration on the front likely hinting at the story within. After looking at the selection of books, she chose one with a rabbit and a dragon on the front illustrated page. Sinking into the recliner cushions, she opened to the first page. 

. . .

     Sarah’s favorite place was the library. As a child, the air conditioned building was a relief from the oppressive heat of her run-down house. The shelves were packed wall to wall with countless stories for her to ponder and devour. She could spend hours reading, to the point her parents would drop her off and run errands while she picked up a book and immersed herself in a new world. She almost became a regular. Some of the staff recognized her whenever she checked out books and recommended others to read. 

     That was a long time ago. Now she had hours of homework and headache-inducing amounts of scheduling to dominate her time. While she still did enjoy curling up with a good book, she often found her mind wandering to the various things she needed to get done. Homework, chores, planning and cooking food, taking care of her mom, searching for jobs that fit her timetable, a lot. Her friends often dragged her out to parties and other social functions that seemed to have no point other than talking. And not even interesting talk.

     Her first chance to visit the library came in the first month of school. The biochemistry teacher announced the first quiz on structural biology according to the readings that were assigned. She put her name in the study cubicle log and set up her study materials. Notebook, pencil, eraser, textbook, reading glasses, phone on silent, all set up and ready. She checked the time. Six. Three hours before closing time. 

     When Sarah finally lifted her head, her phone read 8:07. She had three pages of notes front and back to show for her hours spent and could now leave. As she headed for the doors, she realized she didn’t have anything to do. Sure, she could go home and finish painting the accent wall in the living room, but other than that, everything was sorted and prepared. She glanced up at the clock. 8:12. Plenty of time to explore.

      The library was organized into four levels – floors three, two, one, and the basement. As far as she could tell, floors two and three were all study spaces and socializing spots. The ground floor held two conference rooms and a handful of recording rooms, as well as a closed cafe. Overall, it hardly seemed like a library. Where were the bookshelves? The only ones she had seen were waist high and advertising a specific genre, and the books weren’t packed; they were positioned so their covers could be seen with plenty more space in between them. It was both underwhelming and disappointing. 

     The basement was the last thing Sarah checked. To her surprise and delight, it was stacked full of books and records. It smelled like old paper. Everything was held on rolling bookshelves. The walls held normal shelves with CDs and microfiche boxes. At the back of the room was an empty wall with no adornment. There was a sagging bean bag along the wall, so she grabbed a book at random and plopped down. Leaning back, she opened to a random page and started reading. The book was some analysis on the Odyssey; it was very scientific and very boring. 

     Yawning, she stretched her arms and rested her head on the wall behind her, then promptly fell backward. She rolled over, confused, then scrambled to her feet. 

. . .

     Almost immediately she was taken to the world inside the book. She felt their rivalry, their love. She felt what it was like to fly and to hide. Never before had she been so immersed in a story, in another life. As soon as she closed the book, she sat in amazed silence. Only after a few minutes had passed did the wonder at the time. Sarah hoped she wasn’t locked in. She placed the book on the desk, unable to remember where she got it from. 

     Leaving the room in a hurry, she looked down at her phone only to be stopped in her tracks. The screen read 8:28, about the time she found the room. Confused, she checked the clock on her way out. 8:28. At home, all of the clocks read 8:32. It took four minutes to drive from the university to her mom’s house and get inside. Had she hallucinated the room? The story? How was it that no time passed in the room? That couldn’t be. 

     The next day, Sarah visited the library again. As she approached, the door slid open. She checked for motion sensors, anything that would make the suddenly gaping doorway make sense. Nothing. When she backed away from the door, it closed, completely silent and flush with the wall. Confusion and curiosity spiked in her mind. 

     As the months passed, Sarah visited the library periodically. She did not keep track of her comings and goings, the time, and books she read. She never pulled out the same book twice and each was better than the last. It became her escape. It was tempting, a room where time didn’t pass, where she could do whatever she wanted, or nothing at all. As deadlines increased, so did her time in that timeless room. 

     The room seemed to be calling to her, begging to have its stories read. All of which, she noticed, were first person and following the life of the protagonist. Each and every story ended with the main character finding something unspecified. Odd, but she wasn’t one to judge, especially when it came to magic rooms. If Sarah was being honest, all she wanted to do was curl up in that old, red sofa and read and read and read. She could, she supposed. There was no time there, she could spend as long as she wanted and no one would be none the wiser. 

     What Sarah didn’t notice were her slipping grades and failing relationships. The house was dirty and the messes untouched. Most conversations ended with “Never mind…” preceded by “Sorry, what? Say that again?” after she trailed off or got distracted by her thoughts. Concentrating was becoming increasingly challenging and finishing tasks became a chore. The temptation to turn her back on all of the frustrations and setbacks of her exhausted existence was constant. She started visiting the room between class periods for non-hours at a time, living fantastical lives and boring lives - any life but her own. A day could last for the length of three. Time meant nothing. 

     Moisture in the air pressed in against her skin as she approached the library doors one uneventful night. It would be the last time. She should have been doing homework, but what a bore. So, she shrugged her backpack from her shoulders onto the floor outside the hidden doorway and entered the room. She picked out a book. It was red, curiously picture-less. The door slowly rolled shut, which was strange, but Sarah still had the lamp to illuminate the room. When she opened the book the pages were blank. Sarah frowned when a sharp pain bloomed across her palm. 

     She unwillingly lifted a shaking hand and wiped it on the first page of the book. Panicked, she tried to shut the book, move away, or do anything that would stop the pain bisecting her hand, but her body continued operating autonomously. Page after page, she smeared her blood, until her palm stopped bleeding and the left palm was cut open. Page after page, cut after cut. The scores lined up on her arm like the cuts seen in fried fish. She was in agony, but didn’t scream. Sobs escaped her hijacked body. The blood on the pages moved on their own accord, forming words she could not read before the page flipped. 

     Soon she lost consciousness. The pain was too much for her human body to endure. Head slumped, arms pulled by invisible strings and cut by invisible knives, the book thirstily gulped the blood. Finally, once the last page had been flipped and filled, the book closed. The cover now bore a silver embossed image of a girl curled up with a book. Unseen hands slotted Sarah’s book into an empty spot on one of the shelves and the cozy red sofa patiently waited to attract another story.