Bound: A Short Story

Bound

A Short Story

By

Alexa Grave

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Haunted Unicorn Publishing

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BOUND: A SHORT STORY

Copyright © 2016 by Alexa Grave

ASIN B01C1NSX70

Cover Art “Book of Magic Fire” by frenta / 123RF Stock Photo

Cover Design and Formatting by Haunted Unicorn Publishing

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away. No part of this
publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the
permission of the author.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Every book has a heartbeat.

I caress the spine, cracked and aging, and pull the book
from the shelf. The musty scent irritates my nose. A part of the old cover
flakes off and flutters to the carpet.

Poor thing. Another victim of time, and barely a survivor
from last year’s flood. Water spots stain the yellowing pages as I turn them,
accusing and injured. No, fire isn’t the only threat to paper.

I close the book and place it on the cart. It’ll receive a
facelift, just like the others on my list. The water stains will remain, and
the pages can never return to white, but a new cover will protect it. I touch
the spine again, the title worn off from years of use, and try to imagine what
this book was like when first bound. If only I had power like Gandalf’s, maybe
I could make the pages pristine again.

“Leda?” Fran’s voice is loud in the library’s hushed
expanse, like the booming voice of the Wizard of Oz.

Even my breath is intrusive to the silence. “Yes?”

She walks between the stacks, tapping her watch. “It’s that
time.”

Time, that ever liquid entity, slipping through my fingers
as if it doesn’t exist – at least that’s how it feels when I’m wrapped up in a
book. So many books, so little time.

I nod, and Fran walks away, likely returning to her post at
the reference desk.

Low librarian on the totem poll, a mere assistant who has
only worked here for a few months, I have the job of clearing out the library
at closing time. Need to make sure not to leave any college students asleep in the
cubbies.

I glance at my watch, and sure enough, it’s a quarter to
midnight.
Darn it
– I spent too much time paging through the books
instead of simply gathering them to be repaired. I weave out of the stacks and
push the cart of forlorn texts into the large office behind the circulation
desk.

The student behind the desk, engrossed in homework, doesn’t
spare me a glance when I pass. A warmth fills me, memories of when I was in
college and working the same job. Most times I would be so wrapped up in a book
that I didn’t notice the patrons until they spoke, their words shattering the
illusion of the world I was lost in. I mean, walking into the Chamber of
Secrets with Harry has nothing on reality.

Those days are over, only a couple years past – no chance now
to plunge into someone else’s words while at work. Only at home, when relaxing
before bed. My sigh even sounds too loud for the silence, rough and hard on my
ears.

I start on the second floor, looking down all the stacks,
checking hidden corners – all good places to hide from the world and soak up
knowledge. All clear, including the bathrooms. The periodicals in the basement
are just as lonely.

Fran offers me a smile when I pass by the reference desk on
the first floor. So far, I’ve only found two students struggling over
statistics – they packed their bags up as soon as I told them it’s closing
time.

One room left. There are cubbies at the end of each row of
books in the reading room, so I look carefully, the sound of my flats sliding
on the carpet a calming balm, signaling the end of my night. At least in this
world – I intend to dip into another once home.

In the last cubbie, a student stares transfixed at a page of
the book open before her. I pause before I approach. A chill shoves out the
warmth I felt earlier. Her eyes aren’t moving; her hand, clasping the page to
turn it, is frozen.

I step closer. “Excuse me. The library is closing in five
minutes.”

She doesn’t respond and remains still, as if she’s a statue
perched on the chair, her hands melding with the book. A detailed piece of
artwork, like the metal monstrosity in the library foyer – unwavering, cold.

Goose bumps spring up along my arms, and I shiver, the
feeling I got when first crossing paths with Stephen King’s Pennywise.

I inch forward, the shushing of my shoes on the carpet no
longer a comfort, and place my hand on her shoulder. A small zap of static
electricity sparks the tips of my fingers, and I jump back.

The student starts and whips her head around to look up at
me. Her pupils dilate then contract rapidly, twice. “I’m sorry.” She shoves
papers into her backpack, hands shaking.

“Are you okay?” The image of her eyes haunts me.

“Yes, fine.” The quiver in her voice indicates quite the
opposite. “Just fell asleep.” She grabs her coat and slips by me, heading for
the front door.

Asleep. Possible, perhaps, but my insides feel burnt. From
the electric shock, that’s all.

The student left the book she was reading, still open. I
touch the page. A mixture of cold and electricity shock through me. I yank my
hand back. Strange. Water stains mark the edges of the page – another victim of
the flood.

“Leda? Is there a problem?” Fran asks.

I jump and squeak, spinning to face her, pressing my hand to
my chest. “No, no problem. But you surprised me.”

“Sorry.” She smiles and turns to walk away.

“Wait.” The girl’s eyes and reaction nag at me. “What was it
the student who caused the flood said when they caught him?” Fran told me the
story when I started my job here only days after the flood. A student had
purposely busted a toilet on the second floor late one night before closing. No
one noticed until the next morning. His excuse for his act rumbles below the
surface in my mind, vague and odd – I don’t quite remember it.

She places a finger to her chin. “He had to destroy the
books before they destroyed us.” Anguish ripples across her forehead, eyebrows
drawing together.

I understand how she feels. How can a book destroy us?
Harming one would be like stabbing a friend, one who’s given you nothing but
joy, never asking for anything in return.

But I remember the books lined up along every available
table, like fallen soldiers, opened in the hope that the pages would dry and
they could be saved. Many couldn’t be.

“Crazy, right?” I ask.

Fran shifts her weight and looks at the book on the desk
beside me. “Of course. He merely snapped due to finals.”

Sad. Almost as sad as the books lost to his madness. Books
offer new life, new insights, not destruction.

But I asked the question for a reason – that girl, the
trance. I shudder again. No, the two incidents couldn’t be connected. She fell
asleep. Yes. Fell asleep.

I flip the book closed with a quick flick of my wrist and
hustle away, Fran following. It’s been a long night and my exhaustion tugs at
my mind. Time to go home and get lost in my own book.

* * * * *

I’m already jittery, and my palms start to sweat when I see
what’s before my apartment door. A vase of a dozen white roses gleams under the
hall’s fluorescents. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to allow any tears to
escape.

This has to stop.

I pick up the vase and pluck out the card from among some
baby’s breath. “Love, Sean.” Simple and to the point, just like him.

I gather up the flowers and battle with the deadbolt – the
landlord refuses to fix it, even though it’s lined with rust and hard to turn. Once
inside, I place the vase on the table among the scattered mail.

Sean insists he only wants a chance.

I met him at a local fantasy convention two weeks ago. He
made me laugh, hell, made the convention more enjoyable, and the last night I
allowed my usual barriers to drop, ending up in bed with him.

I immediately regretted it the next morning.

Relationships always fall apart on me, my craving for
solitude and my bookishness destroying what tenuous connections I create.
People hurt, break my heart – unlike books. I’d rather travel to the ends of
Earthsea with Ged than risk being cheated on by the Jays of this world because
I need to “live a little” – at least that’s what he said when I caught him in
bed with my roommate. The day I graduated college, I swore I’d stick to my
books for companionship. No more pain.

I’d hoped Sean would chalk the experience up to a fling and
never want to see me again, but it turned out he thought our meeting was
something akin to fate.

Fate is for fantasy stories. The only happy endings are in
romance novels.

I stare at the flowers. They’re beautiful.

For a moment, I catch myself smiling. No, no. I’ll ignore
these, just like the voice messages and e-mails. I know better. A relationship
with him is doomed before it ever starts.

The gesture is sweet, though, especially since he remembers
I like white over red.

My head hurts from my indecision, so I grab a book from the
shelves lining nearly every wall in my apartment.
Fahrenheit 451
. Haven’t
read this one in a while, but my choice feels right, suitable after tonight.

I snuggle under my covers and dip into the science fiction
world Bradbury created. But my mind can’t focus on the words, skipping around
like a record.

Sean’s smile and laugh illuminate the dark corners of my
imagination. And the visions of him are silhouetted by the girl turning the
page of the book, as still as if her body were but a shell, her soul sucked in
by the words on the page.

* * * * *

Dreams of the library burning wake me. Sweat coats my body,
and I shiver.

Screams. The books in my dream screamed as the fire consumed
them, wailing, pleading, begging for their lives. And I burned with them.

Perhaps
Fahrenheit 451
had been the wrong choice.

No matter, it was just a dream. Simple enough. The dryness
in my throat refutes that simplicity – and the memories of the girl last night.

I take a deep breath, snatch the book from the night stand,
and hide it behind a row of books in the living room. I’ll finish it another
time. Yes.

Errands to do before work this afternoon. I move on with my
day, the flickering of a fading fire refusing to die out in my mind.

* * * * *

I walk into the library, tripping over the entry rug. The
student and the dream don’t want to release their hold on me. Normally I love
work – nothing like exploring the stacks and finding interesting new things to
read. I may prefer fiction, but even the nonfiction college texts hold
fascinating details, a world all their own.

But today, staying at home reading a
happy
book
sounds heavenly. Too bad I can’t take a personal day – too many spent on that
convention.

Light pours into the windows, brightening up even the
darkest corners. It eases my soul, and a warmth settles inside me. Nothing
wrong here. A library, filled with books. The definition of non-threatening.

I head to my desk behind the circulation counter. Before I
can situate myself, Fran appears.

“There’s someone here to see you. Supposedly he’s been
waiting a few hours.” A coy smile graces her lips. “In the reading room.” She
walks away, not giving even a hint as to who it could be.

The reading room is not where I want to start my day – especially
meeting someone who makes Fran smile that way. Couldn’t be work related, or she
would have been more forthcoming and less playful.

The warmth I felt after entering the library flees to the
hidden recesses of the mezzanine. No, he didn’t.

But I already know he did.

No use stretching it out. I suck up my pride and enter the
reading room.

Sean sits at one of the big tables in the center. At least
he’s not in one of the cubbies. His legs are propped up on the chair next to
him and a dog-eared paperback rests in his hands – too ratty-looking to be one
of ours.

I clear my throat, and for a moment I fear a repeat of last
night: Sean as unmoving as the girl, fixated on the pages before him.

But he turns, closes his book, and stands up, the smile on
his face tentative and shy. “Did you get the flowers?”

I keep my distance and squash the slow upturning of the
corners of my mouth. “Yes. But what are you doing here?”

“Well, you haven’t returned my calls...”

“This is my job, though.”

“I figured it was better than showing up on your doorstep
like the roses. And it’s been a while since I visited my alma mater.”

He has a point – if he knocked on my door, I wouldn’t
answer, and if I found him in my apartment building, I’d freak and call the
police.

I forgot he’d mentioned graduating from this college. Could
he have experienced anything strange in the library while he attended?

For heaven’s sake, what am I thinking? Maybe I’ve read too
many Dean Koontz novels lately. No more horror for a while.

Sean takes a step closer. “Please, Leda. I just want to
talk. If you still want nothing to do with me afterwards, the calls will stop.
I promise.”

I take a step back, even though I don’t really want to.
Memories of the night we spent together caress my mind. So sweet, so warm. It
had been too long since I felt that – and those moments with Jay had only led
to heartache. I swallow. “I have to work.”

“You get a dinner break, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

I sigh. I’m not about to argue – we’re already receiving
glances from people in the room. Need to keep the library quiet.

“Fine.” I leave him to his book. It feels as if I have lead
in my butt when I sit down at my desk.

“Is everything all right?” Fran, the nosey librarian.

“Yes. No. Maybe.” I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “That’s
the guy I told you about.”

“The one from the convention?”

“Yeah.”

“How can you resist a man with his nose in a book?” She
laughs. “I say give him a chance.” This isn’t the first time she’s tried to
meddle in my love life, or lack of one. Hopeless romantic.

I want to say,
It’s hard
. And it is, but I made a
promise to myself. No more messy relationships, no more Jays. Books don’t break
my heart.