Bound

Her mother told her to never open the book.

Her mother had warned her to never open the book.

    It was best left untouched, best left ignored, in the very back of the library. Other books may come and go; other books could have their pages torn and their bindings fray, but never this book. It was to never be touched. It was to never be opened. If at all possible, she was to never even think about what terrifying words the yellowed pages must contain.

    When she was thirty, her mother died, and had left the home to her.

    She had never wanted the old place. It was dull and drab, with gray walls and brown furniture. There were scuff marks on the floor from where she and her sisters and spent their days running amok. Even now, she could hear her mother chastising them about “resting on the Sabbath.” The windows were dusty, there was dirt on the floor, and the plants had not tasted water for what appeared to be several weeks. And yet, just as she knew it would be, the library was spotless.

    Her mother’s shawl rested, curled, in the seat of the armchair. Next to it, a book lay, open to random page. There was a pencil stuck inside, and words akin to chicken scratch next to the black text. She used to mark her mother’s page and close the book for her, when her mother had fallen asleep in the chair. But now… now she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Now, even the thought of touching one of her mother’s books felt wrong. Disgusting, even.

    This was not her place. This was not her house. This was Momma’s home.

    But even if there was nothing here for her, It was still here.

    It sat in the bookshelf still, planted between a collection of Sherlock Holmes and a Danielle Steele novel. Its binding was still tight, creased together only where the metal straps pressed against the leather. She had spent years wondering about that book, watching it when her mother could not see. Oh, how she had desired to take that book from the shelf, hold it in her hands, and stroke the cool leather beneath her fingertips.

    As if on their own accord, her feet began to move forwards. Her left hand came up.

    Cool. Rough, like bark beneath her flesh. It reminded her of an old woman’s skin, so gnarled and tough. It was exactly how she had imagined it, and yet completely different. The straps were like metallic ice, cold and biting and just begging to be released from their prison. Carefully, as though her mother would come around the corner and catch her, she removed the book from the shelf.

    Sherlock Holmes fell, to lean against Danielle Steele.

    One by one, she undid the clasps that held the book together. The metal straps fell, to hang from the bolts that secured them to the binding. The only sound in the room was the creaking of the old leather as it bent beneath her hands, exhausted from years of disuse.

    With that sound echoing in her ears, she skimmed over the first few sentences. And there, written in neat, crisp handwriting, were the words “The Book of the Gods rests in your hands, written from the blood within your veins and bound with the same flesh that surround your bones.”

She never touched the book again.