Fever Dream

It started as a question. A laughing, offhand question. Did you know the answer? A whisper from behind the shelf tells you no. Your hand lingers on the hard, not-quite-wood of a book’s spine, then switches to brush against the not-quite-plastic of the library shelf. Everything here is brimming with life, yet somehow just as stony and silent as those you cast the question upon. The shelves have no eyes, but they watch you sweep down their corridors. The books have no ears, but they hear you muttering the question over and over. The floor begins to mock you, whispering taunts and false promises, the ever-luring sound of a pencil on paper. The whisper grows into a scream as you turn away, clutching a book to your chest. Inanimate things should be seen, not heard. 

And so, you've fallen victim. They say it's a disease, a hunger, a pestilence brewing within your heart and begging for more. And yet... It feels like walking down aisle after aisle searching for something that bears no name nor tether to you or anyone else. It's a comma where a period should be, a semicolon at the end of a page. Is it a finish? A death? A wedding? A beginning? Nobody knows, and nobody dares find out. You laugh, making sure to keep your voice low. What are they scared of? Books and silence?

Somehow, the air tastes like paper in its know-it-all way. The question rattles around in your skull, begging for an answer unfound. Knowledge burns like gin on your lips, and the cliché is broken. Not whiskey, gin. There's a difference, but you wouldn't know. You've never had either. Cliché. The word rings like a bullet through your mind's eye, a breathy sigh full of lust and disappointment. Cliché. It rolls off your tongue over and over again, and soon it tangles. Cliché. If you say it enough you'll degrade it into a subspecies, a half-truth, a lie. The mutated word seems to drive you out of the aisle you spoke it in, angry at your lips for warping it’s meaning. Cliché. Your steps grow faster, worried. 

A sense of primal fear begins to swing through the air like frankincense through a cathedral, trembling through the air like heat off of concrete. Since when did you become this descriptive? Since when did you become this scared? Perhaps the ink has injected it’s poison into you, slowly turning your skin to textbook pages, your breath to meaningless synonyms. Soon enough, you’ll be taken as another story, a tall tale that students whisper about, a prize of the library’s hunting. You slip a hand against the rough brick of the library’s back wall, abandoning your answer for a moment in favor of reality. 

The cloud over your vision clears. Your skin turns back to normal, and your lungs are no longer choked through with ebony ink. The brick presses patterns into your hand, and it’s the dull ache of it that snaps the trance completely. The smell of paper is gone, nearly vanished, replaced with a neat burning scent. Nothing whispers, nothing calls, nothing begs for answers or speaks in riddles. Everything is silent, and perhaps that’s worse than the noise. 

Your hand falls away from the wall. 

For an awful moment, it seems as though they won’t take you back. The realism of the room is terrible, stark facts bathed in pure fluorescent light. White tile gleams, as do plexiglass shelves. It’s so much… colder. Could they have forgotten? Could they have left you behind? No. They never let a trophy escape. 

A moment passes. Then another. The world rises from its plastic chair and settles back into its velvet armchair. The tile’s gone, as are the plexiglass shelves, both replaced with a darkly stained wood. There’s no light sources, only light, gently washing things in a warm lamplight. There’s another moment, a rest on a music score, a still heart, a moment of pure opposite where everything and nothing exist all at the same time. 

The eeriness floods back, drowning you within its waves. 

The scene doesn’t change this time, only you do. There’s a certain darkness inside your head, playfully flirting with  your morals. It’s here, it’s ready, all for you to take. There’s a change, as sudden as a flicked switch, and the desperation from before starts up again. It’s thrilling. It feels like a cold hand has coiled around your heart, squeezing just enough to keep you on edge. You’re a puppet on woven strings, and this is your dance.

    In a moment of awareness, you fight. This isn’t natural warmth, it’s a drugged sleepiness. In a fit of anger and fear, your hand slams against the brick, enough to leave a scrape. The awful fluorescent come back, as well as a slight waft of your mother’s perfume. It vanishes just as quickly as it comes, replacing everything with a trembling sweetness, a spiderweb of offset balances in the air. It’s pleasantly shattered, a deluded joy, a facade. Fear fills you again, and you move away from the wall that no longer holds safety, and back into the mass of shelves. 

How long have you been walking? Where is the table that holds your notebook and bag? The librarian approaches, looking made of paper and what you imagine ink would smell like. She looks like a librarian. Jeans, t-shirt, worn-out shoes. She smiles, asks if you need help finding anything. You shake your head no, when your heart longs so desperately to say yes. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, a horrid symphony of disgust and false concern. Can you speak? Do you dare? The smile turns to concern, then anger, and she reaches out a seemingly clawed hand to touch you. You rip away, skulking back into the depths of the shelves. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps a question unanswered is no more than a pestilence, eating away at one’s sanity and judgement. The shelves are quiet this time. There’s no great revelation or breathtaking conclusion. They’ve taken you, and you both know it. Alas, your answer. Have you found it yet? Or are you still searching?

    We all know you’re never leaving.