Stolen Library

“There are going to be questions, you know.”

Of course I know. They’re forgetting just how much I know.

“Maybe we should take you to a therapist,” They continue, oblivious to the fact that I’m half-asleep by now, “Would that work out? Last time…Yeah, we don’t need to start another fight.”

Why would they say that? There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just a fascination. The previous therapist deserved it, too many questions. Now I have a reputation, I suppose.

“Are you listening to me?”

Yes, I’m listening. I’m always listening. That’s where I learn things from. Listening, thinking, taking away what’s real and what’s nothing but propaganda.

But they don’t need to know that, so I nod, and smile. They’re used to my smile, it’s a sign of normalcy to them. I would stop smiling, if it wouldn’t raise more suspicions. They don’t deserve it.

“I understand.”

They shake their head, “Do you?”

“Of course I do. We’re at war,” I say, tired of these words, “And we need to be careful.”

“So, where is it?”

I’m not going to tell them, they know that. So I just shake my head and keep smiling, but that grin has taken on a different meaning now.

Try me, it seems to say, I dare you.

They know. I’ve gotten in fights over this before. A child at school says the wrong thing one too many times, someone comes on too forceful. I’m stronger than them, usually, and if I’m not then I get beaten up. It happens.

“Please, we really do need you to tell us.”

It’s stupid, almost. I’m trying not to laugh at this point. They’ll decide that my obsession is a threat to national security soon. But really, is it my fault that they’ve reignited the Cold War? Is it my fault that I’ve harbored an interest in such matters?

“Come along, it’s just a few books.”

Just a few books. No, it’s not. It’s been more than that ever since they’ve taken away knowledge. Closed the libraries, confiscated electronics. It’s for safety. Knowledge isn’t safe. I’m not safe.

So I do as I’ve always done. It’s raining outside, as if the sky is sobbing. I don’t care that much. I don’t remember how to cry. My coat is upstairs, in my room, and it can stay there. I don’t quite care enough. They’ll be sore about the way I throw the door closed, but I don’t care about that either.

I don’t care about them.

I care about the woods, about the way that the rain drips down through the pines and makes the dead needles of the forest floor slippery. I care about the way that the trees are always bolt upright, and tall, as if they were soldiers. I care about the books, my home, waiting for me in the darkness.

The trees all look the same, but if I wander for long enough, I’ll find it. Always do. And there, I have. Just beyond these trees. It’s not that far from our house. No one else knows how to find it, though. They’ve tried. Calculated searches, teams, people with guns. Guns. What would they shoot, bookshelves? The occasional dove?

No, that’s not how it works. You can’t find it like that. There is nothing calculated about history, you don’t find it by looking. You find it by aimlessly wandering the pages of tired volumes, by watching empires be razed to the ground.

Maybe I should have stopped learning. Maybe I should have stopped when the tensions rose. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to allow my fanatical obsession with the Cold War to continue after they eliminated all remembrance of it. They still don’t want us to think about how badly the last one almost turned out.

They’re scared.

As they should be, nuclear annihilation isn’t a pleasant prospect. I don’t mind. They think that I’ll go about preaching, don’t they? That I’ll go tell everyone about how close we came to a third world war? About Cuba?

No, there’s no point. They wouldn’t believe me. That was a long time ago, they’ve forgotten. I didn’t believe it, either, at the beginning. Peace has reigned over Russia and America for decades, nearly a century. Then I started talking about it, vague comments.

They lost their minds.

So, yes, I do believe it now.

The trees believe it, too. Their boughs are saluting in the rain, they’re telling me more than I would ever think. I’m sopping wet. The library is over there, just a bit further, I just have to get over this hill. The pine needles are completely saturated, slippery and quiet, and I-

There, I’ve fallen over again. The trees don’t mind, though, that I’ve tripped on their shoes. One of them helps me stand up, it’s rough bark scratching my hand enough to bleed.

“Awfully sorry about that, my good sir,” I tell the tree, “Didn’t mean to get blood on you.”

I don’t think the tree minds.

There, the library. It’s a small building, made of bricks, and I can see the shelves through the windows. The bricks have turned a darker color from the rain, like the blood drying on my hand, but the books inside are safe. Of course it’s not just about the first Cold War, there are other books, but that section is my favorite. It’s still more than they would like.

I’ve slipped again, and I tumble down the slope, which is usually what happens when I slip. There’s coarse grass poking out through the pine needles, but it doesn’t do much to stop me. I’ve done this before, I always fall down this hill. I think these particular pine needles are harboring a grudge against me. But I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, and I have other priorities at the moment, such as not dying.

 I manage to get up just before I crash into the library. The doors make a lovely sound as they open, almost like a complaint, but the laughing kind, like when someone says an absolutely horrible joke that shouldn’t be funny.

“I’m home,” I call out.

There’s no one there, I had thought, just the books. I trust them more than those who would be my allies. Which is quite sad, if one thinks about it. Most of those are considered family. But they aren’t here, and I’m safe at the moment. I’m home. And that, my dear, means sweet loneliness. 

I think.

My voice doesn’t echo, and the sounds of my footsteps are more than enough noise. The tiles here are dusty. A lot of things are.

I would speak, if there was someone to be spoken to. But I don’t believe there is anyone at the moment, and the birds that have made their homes in the rafters don’t like me talking to them, so I stay quiet. The quiet is a friend, like the trees, and the rain. The rain has stopped.

I had thought I was alone. Not safe, but alone.

Now it seems that I was wrong.

“Hello?”

I don’t know that voice. They’re not like me, though, they’re older. They don’t seem to think that they’re alone, as if they know I’m here. My heart is beating faster, though I have different things to worry about. I don’t know why I noticed that.

“Come out, there isn’t anywhere for you to hide.”

They’re wrong. I know this place better than they do, I’m the librarian.

“I can get you to safety.”

Wrong again, my good sir. There is no safety.

“Ah, there you are.”

The voice is coming from behind me now, their hand on my arm. No, no thank you. Don’t touch me. 

I turn around, and I don’t think violence was my intent. Somehow, though, I inadvertently cop the side of their head. Now there are more voices, and more hands, and no, please don’t do that. They’ve knocked over one of the shelves, and it’s all rather fast. The building, my library, why am I getting dragged out of the library?

Over in the trees, I know those people. The trees, they’re not soldiers anymore, not friends. Just trees. They’ve been ruined by these people. Fools. Absolute fools. I’ve lashed out, my nails are long enough to draw blood, and the scratches on my hand are bleeding again. I don’t control anything anymore, not where my hands are, not the obscenities coming out of my mouth. No. I don’t want to leave the library.

Them, I know them. They’re my parents. I’m not fighting as they take me from the government people, I don’t want to hurt them anymore. Too many memories of too many good things. They’re helping now, at least, trying to get me away from the library. I don’t want to leave the library. Don’t make me leave, please.

We’re in the woods, they’ve no thought for the words leaving my mouth. I don’t know what those words are, either. I don’t know if they’re words. I look over my shoulder, glancing through the trees.

Smoke.

They’ve set it on fire.

They’ve set my home on fire.

My eyes are closing now, I can’t stop them. Maybe it's the smell of burning books. Maybe because I haven’t slept in a few days. I should be fighting. I need to get to my books. The books. My friends. I need to save my friends. Yet it all turns black, and I can’t see anything. I can feel the tears, though, so I’m awake. I have to be awake. I need to be awake. I need to go back.

And my eyes open once more. I’m not in the woods. I can’t feel the rain and the sweat and the… no, I still hurt. I hurt quite a bit. My eyes don’t want to open, I never want to open them again, but there’s light.

I’m in my bedroom.

In bed, more specifically.

I forget, quite often, that I have one of these. I just sleep here. There’s pencil and paper on my desk, over in the corner, and I remember putting it there a long time ago. I can’t bother seeing anything else, not the harsh sunlight, not the mess of damp clothes on the floor. None of that matters.

So I get up, lock the door, and sit down at the desk.

I don’t know what to make of it, sitting at a desk without a book in my hand. It’s colder. Clear, like a blank slate. Like the blank pages in front of me. But I have a job to do, don’t I? I pick up my pencil, and I begin to write.

They stole my library, so I’ll just rebuild.