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Every Page Tells a New Story

By Scott KessmanPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

In the languid light radiating dimly from the single bulb, the book was an intruder. Casually tucked away, it attempted to pass itself off as a simple replica of ignored volumes, of an unknown literary work, a forgotten novel of no great importance. Upon spying it lurking on the rickety shelf, Peter knew it did not belong here.

Peter labored in the reference wing of the library, well-suited to the dull task of straightening shelves and cataloguing books, and locating articles and papers published in journals. His six years at the library had instilled within him the overall acceptance of the boredom that pervaded his life, as though filtered through the air he breathed.

As it so happened, these tasks and the weekly paycheck he received in return became as useless to him as others saw him to the world. Peter was a husk of negative polarity, the seeds of a meaningful life were repulsed by him, scattered before him in a multitude of chaotic disarray, always out of reach and out of mind.

But his title had equated within him a sense of identity, a meager self-worth. He was Peter Hubert, Reference Librarian. His uninhibited mindscape of melodramatics had infused him with the notion that he was somebody, and this recognition was further promoted by his long-deceased father’s rambling that an individual is nothing without a job. Those lectures suffered on long, dreary weekends are clearly imprinted upon his brain as if his skull had been peeled aside like a flaky crust, so that the words could be carved into the pulpy mass beneath. Long forgotten are the nights when his father would drink himself to sleep after a hard day of unemployment and debauchery.

But Peter’s twisted memories of the past had rearranged themselves this evening, allowing him at last to see the true face of his life. He was Peter Hubert, Reference Librarian. He laughed. It meant nothing. His life, from his unwanted entrance into the world, to his uneventful childhood, to his meaningless existence up to this very second in time, meant nothing.

This evening, Peter had decided to undertake the arduous task of organizing, inventorying, cataloguing and cleaning the large storage room in the basement that remained nearly untouched, sometimes for weeks at a time. It was forgotten, as were the moldy, dusty tomes housed within the tomblike walls. One could almost sense the scent of decay and mausoleums wafting out from underneath the door like a thick perfume, clinging to clothes and skin with century-old contamination.

The whole of the basement was seldom used, comprised mostly of storage for outdated machinery, the antiquated card catalogue system, replaced fixtures and furniture; all relics of years past that were tossed into the sea of abandon like broken promises without remorse. The sea was a still mass of gray ghosts, sheets discolored with thick layers of dust. The cobwebs hung like tattered draperies, perfectly still in the stale, dead air. Lazy spiders shared quarters with roaches and beetles, and all competed with the unruly mice that claimed ultimate jurisdiction.

Peter was not missed, and though all knew he was embarking on a fool’s errand, his absence was not unwelcome. No one cared about the books that were basically in permanent stasis, and Peter was blissfully aware of that fact.

He was inclined to be alone in contemplation. The seeds of doubt had taken root aeons ago, but were overshadowed by rotting layers of cement-like earth. They had at last thrust the tender stem of a sapling into the glorious world, where it could grow and be free to sample the rich air and sustenance of the sun.

Peter sat upon a crooked stool, surrounded by everything that was the epitome of wrongfulness within his life. He stared at the layers upon layers of books that seemed as lifeless brick walls, sealing him into an eternity of the contempt writ upon their yellowing, flaking pages.

He belonged down here, alone and forgotten like these books whose words meant nothing. Surely, he had never said anything of great importance, had never imparted his knowledge upon an individual who needed it. He had never left footprints in the earth, had never tasted life, had never left an impression. He walked through life as a ghost, barely seen and easily forgotten, quiet and sullen.

Better, he thought to himself, to lock himself within these walls, to bury himself under the mound of books, the largest of which could serve as his headstone, and the title would speak of nothingness, his epitaph. Yes, better that, than to continue this dreadful existence in the same manner he was accustomed to.

He would deceive himself no longer.

In the moment of that revelation, he caught sight of the book on the highest shelf, just barely out of reach unless he stood tiptoe. Appearing no indifferent than its companions, it nevertheless caught and held Peter’s attention like an insect suffused in amber.

The book was in his hands moments later, hardbound, but leathery to the touch; like dried skin stretched across a palette of wood. Reasonably thick, it was heavy, as though it carried the weight of the years it had sat as a molded part of the shelf.

There was no title etched into the cover, nor on the binding. Prying back the cover, he expected to hear the creak of a door whose hinges badly needed oiling. His curiousity was rewarded with blank pages akin to parchment, and he searched in vain for the title or the copyright date or the publishers house. But there was nothing. Three blank pages. Yet before he dared turn over the third, he sensed that the fourth page would not be devoid of words, but would comprise the beginning of something unattainable. Pulling the book from its home had in effect turned a key, opening the cover had opened the door, yet he could not yet enter the oblivion of the words, not here, not yet. It was wrong, this place.

Grasping the book firmly between his arms as if he were protectively cradling a baby, while also threatening to crush its delicate frame if more pressure were applied, he strode defiantly out the library and proceeded to catch the next bus to the city. He did not glance at anyone with his usual sheepish expression, but rather held his head high and determined.

On the bus, throughout the entire stifling ride, he continued to grasp the book tightly, staring menacingly at anyone who dared to look back at him, his paranoia assuring him they were after his prize.

He yearned to open the book, to sample its mysteries of hidden pleasure and imagined reality. Patience, he told himself. Through grit teeth, he managed to contain his urges.

The ride became unbearable as his patience dwindled to meager scraps. He was on the edge of something exciting and knew, something long overdue. He was going to make a change, to make an impression in life, and he could barely contain himself any longer, though he knew he could do nothing here, not on the bus.

But shortly, in the city at last, he rushed excitedly to the heart of the teeming concrete jungle, driven with a purpose, oblivious to the world and its inhabitants swirling around him like spectral forms dancing on the edge of his vision. He saw the building then, a network of glass and steel, reflecting the sun with stark-white clarity, blinding and searing his eyes as he stood transfixed. It thrust itself into the sky obtrusively, brimming with arrogance.

Peter wasted no time entering the monster and navigating his way through the intestinal halls and levels, at last emerging onto the roof, atop the brainstem of this architectural behemoth.

The wind blew madly, and the scent of something sweetly dangerous sailed around Peter like roiling waves of water, a dark tide alive with the magical buzz of the city. The sky was pink in contrast to the gray cement surface beneath his feet, and the clouds sailed by eagerly, racing toward unknown destinations.

Peter drew back the cover of the book.

Peter opened the door, and stepped into the world he longed to embrace. One, two, three steps unflinching, uncaring, his expression stoic with wonder.

A short pause, his fingers dancing on the edge of the page, caressing it, and he said goodbye as he turned the three blank pages aside to reveal the fourth.

Peter took the final step through the door and fell into the void of a confused cosmos. The writing within the book was innate scrawling and remarkable penmanship, hieroglyphics and newsprint. Letters and symbols danced across the pages, constantly forming new sentences bespeaking of strange and wondrous oddities, of incorrigible normality, of nothing at all, of everything at once.

The wind flipped the pages as fast as the words registered in his mind, startling his synapses and electric juices, jumbling his nerves and alighting fires with incredible clarity.

He was alive, populous with energy, soaring high on the winds like a majestic angel, viewing the world below with sympathetic bewilderment.

Endless possibilities stretched before him like roads meeting the horizon, every page a new story, a new path. Every page turned saw a road crumble and fall, never to be rebuilt, a choice never to be made.

He was nearing the end of understanding; everything he was learning was seeping away as quickly as his sponge-like brain absorbed the new information, at the same time wringing out the vital juices over the inky expanse of a black hole.

The last page. Blank.

The street greeted him with painful conviction for only a second, whereas he instantaneously felt the synchronized snaps of bone and mind, and then the nothing rushed in to lay claim to the soul that belonged to it always. They met as old friends, lovers, embraced and became as one.

Blood mingles with ink, and pages turn idly in the breeze.

Short Story
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