The Leather Bound Book

An average Saturday night for most seventeen year olds consists of parties, hanging out with friends,and bad decisions. I, on the other hand, spend my Saturday night working at the local library so I can save up for college. At first, the idea of working at a library seemed enticing. I pictured a grand room with old oak shelves as walls, filled with an extensive amount of leather bound books occupying every space the eye could see. I thought of candles slowly burning, while people carefully read and researched things of importance. I imagine books filled with the mysteries of the world just at my fingertip, the kind of books that make you feel so very insignificant. Though, that sort of library isn’t reality. A real library is the type that has shelves filled with books with modern, colourful covers laced with plastic. The contents of these books discuss nothing of importance. Desks and chairs of simple colours occupied by people who aren’t passionate for the books they are looking for, but instead aloof. I knew my expectations of a library were unrealistic but I couldn’t help myself. So now, I am stuck working a boring job like everybody else.

Today, I have my normal task, ensuring that all the books are in order and in their proper place. I mostly pace around daydreaming while tracing my fingers over books. I enjoy the feel of the smooth plastic covers the books under my finger while tracing their different heights. Most of the books I pass are so very ordinary they pain me. I find the books to be hard to distinguish from each other because of all their similarities. After an hour of walking through lines of shelves, my eyes peer at the clock across the room just as it’s about to hit 9:40pm. I decided to finish up with the mystery and thriller section, my least favourite. I never understood the genre myself. I started up the aisle running my finger slowly over the books. The library is quiet at this hour, so I only really heard my footsteps and nothing else. Just as I was about to finish this aisle I feel an odd texture under my finger, leather. I turn to see a beautiful dark brown leather book. The book looks old and used, but that is the beauty of it. I slowly pull the book out of its spot on the shelf and look at the cover, it’s blank. I look at the back to see if there is anything on it, and again it is blank. I gaze at the book in my hand and think of my original fantasy of the library, I smile. Before I think, I carefully open the book. I hear the leather shifting, the pages move, and I smell that alluring smell of an old book. It takes me a few seconds to actually notice what is on the page, a photo. The photo seems to be of a baby, a near newborn in a lady’s arm. The two seem to be sitting in a cushioned chair near a fireplace. I realize there is writing below it, “the first of many''. I look back at the photo and observe the odd angle the photo is taken from. The photographer looks to be taking the photo from a great distance away, and the lady seems unaware the photo is even being taken. My curiosity takes a hold of me and I turn the page. Another photo of the same child, but they seem slightly older. The baby is now alone in a baby blue crib sleeping. The photo was evidently taken from outside a window, I shiver. I slam the book, the sound echoes throughout the library. I don’t have the room in my head to think about people I may have upset with the noise, all I can think about is the book. Is this a library book? There is no plastic cover or barcode. What is this? I open the book back up to the page with the baby sleeping. It is possible someone left it here by accident and maybe the book contains who it is from so I can return it. Though this seems unlikely, it is a nice excuse to keep reading. I look at the photo again, it isn’t right. Why would someone be taking a photo from outside the window? I look to see if there is writing but there is none. I felt energy reaching through my fingers pulling me to turn the page. My stomach turned in disagreement, but I couldn't resist peeking at the upcoming pages. The third page had the child but now at least a few months old. The child seems to be at a park, I immediately recognize the park. It’s the park near my childhood home. The blue slide, the broken swing set, the small hill in the background, it is all so familiar. The child itself is a stroller playing with a small doll. A slight panic started to grow in me, what the hell is this book? I'll skim through the book to see if there is a hint of who the owner is, I shouldn't be snooping anyways. I start going through the pages faster. I stop quickly at a photo that catches my eye. It’s of my old childhood house. The same picket fence. The same apple tree. The same white bricks for walls. The same baby blue rims around the windows. The same doors with the painting my mother did on them. I start going through the book faster. I see photos of myself, my school, my parents funeral, my whole life. I stop at the second last page. The photo is of me this morning. I was wearing the same black tunic and jeans with a bun. I flip to the last page, it’s empty. Empty. Are they planning on adding pages? Why was it left here? They are here. They left this here, they must mean are here. I turn around as fast as I can, nobody is there. I realize I’m crying. I wipe the tears of my face and try to stop shaking as I reach into my pocket for my phone. Then I hear it. I hear the steps behind me. I try to turn but I am too late, my phone drops from my hand. I feel a hand touch softly the back of my head and the cold metal of a knife slid across my neck before everything goes black.