Bookshelf 2700-263A Story by Vela June (or aira isane)author's note: first posted at: http://aiseason.wordpress.com word count: 3353 unedited version - my betas have yet to edit it. cr. aira isane (roxanne) 2010
I did not like to be around people. I would always just write my life
away in stories I know would never happen. I liked immersing myself in
things that could never be because I would for certain to never have a
broken heart. That was always the case when it came to living. I would
live knowing pain would not be included. I did not like getting close to
people. I liked being alone, on my own and never depending on anyone. I
have been this way for 12 years and I’m only 19 years old. So, when she
entered my life, I was not sure of what to do.
I sat on the floor reading a random book that I pulled out from the shelf just above my head. I had randomly plopped myself down on the floor as all the seats were taken and I did not really want to go outside. The library is like a sanctuary. It was quiet and no one would be force to interact with one another. I especially like the fact that no one could criticize me for being by myself. Everyone just assumes you are studying and want to be by yourself and I quite liked that. I flipped through the pages carelessly and absentmindedly. My eyes began to droop and my body swayed at the lack of strength. I always fall asleep on the floors of the library. I have become an expert on sleeping on floors. I am never found sprawled on the floor and rendering others from getting to the books they need. I would always be lightly leaning against a shelf with my legs tucked and my head slightly tilted. No one ever bothers me. No one ever bothers to look for me. The loud screech of a wheel on the tiles of the library floor rang in my ears. I found myself laying on one side of the aisle, and almost in a shelf. I am not quite sure how that worked out, but it did. The girl pushing the cart looked at me with a raised brow and slightly smiled at my dorky stature. I shrugged and sat up while grabbing the book that I should have been reading. There was not much to say to her as I really had no idea who she was. It was my first time seeing her, and that is not something anyone should take lightly. Since, I was always here in the library, who better to know who is new than an everyday visitor. Actually, I would not even be considered as just a visitor. The library was already like my home. I shrugged again, got up and handed her the book- it was her job to put it back. She did not bother to reach for it. She only pointed at the space it should go in and returned to her work. My upper lip curled up in annoyance and placed the book on her cart- it was her job to put it back. “Listen here,” she picked up the book and grabbed my hand, “It’s just right there.” her words were emphasized and her lip pointed to the shelf behind me. Again, she returned to her work and ignored me. Something in me snapped. The lack of ability to communicate like a person cannot be found in me, but I also cannot say that I don’t know how to act in the library. Actually, I usually put back the books myself, but she annoyed me and so I intended to annoy her back. The annoyance came out of nowhere. Even now, I do not know why. I placed the book on the side and started to walk away. “YAH!” She shouted and the rest of the people starred blankly at me. “What are you doing?!” she said in a low intimidating voice. “Can‘t you talk?” A small sympathetic smile formed on her face. Should I agree or should I say the truth? I gulped and nodded. Well, there goes my answer. She nodded in realization and walked away. Was she letting me off the hook? Moments later, she returned with a slip of paper. “This is your first warning.” She handed me the paper and a pen. “Write your name on it and return it to me.” She kept pushing the paper towards me, but I refused to take hold of it. In the end, she was unable to persuade me to admit to my own fault. Every day that I would return to the library, she would be there waiting for me with that slip and the pen. And on those days I was unable to borrow books in fear that she might get a hold of my name. It became a routine to me and every thing that I had to do in the library had to include escaping and hiding from the persistent woman. I became conscious of her every movement in the library. I could never say a word to her as she still thought of me as a mute and as a trouble maker. I sat down on an empty seat and placed down my coffee, my net book, my back pack and began to write, forgetting that I had to hide from her. The black step stools were scattered everywhere and in the corner of eyes, it bothered me a little. I stood up and began to fix them. “What are you doing?” her head popped out from the empty section of a
shelf. I jumped back surprised and thankfully, no sound came out. I was
not about to let her find out that I had lied to her. I already did one
bad deed, I would not want to add another. I gulped as my upper lip
quivered. I placed my finger on it and instead of it quivering, it now
just looked like I was now disgusted at who I was looking at. She looked
down at the stool and back to me. I sighed and returned to what I was doing. For months, I perfected it and in those months I decided not to visit the library. She looked at me still with that big smile of hers. I returned it with a quick small smile and walked away. She still scared me a little. Who would have thought that such a small girl like her could scare such a buffed and tall guy like me. I sure did not. For the whole day, I tried to build up the courage to talk to her. I practiced my sign languages as best I could, but as she inched closer to where I sat, my confidence began to diminish. She smiled at me once more as we made eye contact. “I’m glad you came back though.” She continued on. She laughed as I struggled to answer her questions. “Like I said, I know you can talk.” And she too started to speak back to me with both words and sign language. I closed my eyes in defeat. “Yeah, well, you assumed it.” I responded moments later. The next day, I found out she had stopped volunteering there. It was already the end of June. The weather was not forgiving and the excessive heat pinched through my skin. I itched on every exposed skin and tried to cover myself with books I decided to borrow, but the hand holding them began to burn as I got further and further away from the library. I could still see her shoulder length hair flowing even when there was no wind in that building. I memorized her walk and quiet steps. I remember watching her hands gracefully placing the books back into their appropriate spaces. They were small and slender. And the days she got close to me, I smelled the scent of strawberry on her. Every time, she would smell of strawberry. I recall every thing that I knew about her on my way home, every thing, but her name. Months passed and I never went back in that library after I returned the books I borrowed. I sat on one of the comfortable seats on the third floor of the library. I sat there for hours and then decided to go inside one of the study rooms. I sat away from the crowd and in a secluded cubby surrounded with shelved books. I sat there for hours as well. I wrote my life away like I had done not too long ago, but her face never left my mind. Her eyes pierced my thoughts and hindered me from continuing with the story I was writing. I closed my eyes and tried to get rid of it. “The School of Prague… by Thomas DaCosta Kau…History of French Painting… by Stranahan.” “They’re not in that aisle. It should be after aisle 2700-263.” I pointed to the opposite direction and went back to my seat. I don’t like to talk, so the attempt to start a conversation failed. Before I could walk back completely, she whispered a thank you. After that encounter, we saw each other more and more. Sometimes- most times, we’d sit next to each other on the floor, staring at the titles of the books. She talked all those times while I listened to her tell stories about her classes. I spent most of my time in that library, as I never really went to class. She spent most of her time in her classes as she had a complete 18 units. She was always busy, and most times, she was too busy to see me. That did not matter though since I was only but an acquaintance to her. I looked at her- more like stared at her. She gave me a quick glance and continued to talk. She was probably making sure that I was still keeping with her stories. I nodded at the right moments. Every day the stories got longer and I got more bored than I have ever been in all my life, but I listened. I listened so well that I could probably relay the story to someone else with the same emotion and with the exact words she used. “What about you? I’m always talking about how school’s doing for me yet, you never but in to add any of your experiences.” She hugged her legs as the ac of the library nipped at her. She continuously rubbed her arms to warm them up and flexed her fingers to keep them from freezing. I was used to the cold so I took off my jacket and draped it over her. She thanked me and waited. She waited for me talk about school. “I don’t like school.” I honestly answered. “I don’t attend class unless I have to.” I straightened out for her. “But you have notes.” She pointed at what I already knew about. I shrugged in response. “I love to read. I love to write. I just don’t like school.” I answered her as she looked more confused. “Listen, I have to go to class. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She said as she looked at her watch. I am sure, she had no idea how to actually react to what I do. She could interpret as laziness or just pure stupidity. On the other hand, she could understand where I’m coming from and return tomorrow unchanged. That was not the case here though. She looked at me and I looked at her. It took her a long while to finally start talking. For the next few days, she insisted I go out and I would respond the
same way I did the first time she asked, “Don’t force me to do something
I don’t like to do.” I agreed with her philosophy, but I did not make it mine. During those days, she would take twenty minutes nagging me and another fifteen arguing about it. The hour that was supposed to be spent catching up with one another turned out as time for her to get mad at me. I lived life the way I want to. She lives life the way she wants to. I do not nag her about how she lives, so I can not understand why she thinks she has the right to criticize me. Our beliefs began to be more evident as time passed on. She finished her freshman year and I finished my sophomore year. We did not see each other after that. During my junior year, I began to study more. I excluded myself from people even more than before. Sometimes group projects became a hassle, but even more so, if my grades were to drop. My communication skills dropped. My voice seemed foreign even to me and consequently, my writing began to falter as well. She left me as a friend who cared a lot and I appreciate her for that, but I could not find it in myself to change my ways just because a friend of mine said so. I did not change for her. But as my predicament worsened, I found myself wanting to change. My writing meant more to me than anything else. My writing was my
life and without it, I was nothing more than just a simple quiet
unsociable person. I am not sure when it happened, but I began to forget her. I started to move on with my life, forgetting that it was her who made me see the faults in how I lived. © 2011 Vela June (or aira isane)Author's Note
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Added on August 15, 2011 Last Updated on August 15, 2011 AuthorVela June (or aira isane)Long Beach, CAAboutI’m currently a homebody, doing the things that I love which are drawing and writing. With the second chance of having free time, I’ve immersed myself in works I’ve put off for a whi.. more..Writing
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