A world of our own…
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Nothing made me happier than losing myself between the pages of a good book. There was a sense of peace, an anchor which kept me tied to this world. Whenever I felt as though I was drifting, I would simply skim through the words of my favorite book immediately I would find myself anchored back to this plane of living.
I was always an avid reader, even as a child my mother would often lose track of me only to find me with my nose buried inside a book and sitting in some corner. I would stay up late at night just to see if my favorite characters made it back safe in their worlds. I would often be found giggling on my own in the playground while the rest of my classmates played on the swing sets at school.
I must have been the only one the teachers must have asked to stop reading. I was obsessed you see. The obsession grew to the point where reading a book was simply not enough, no, I wanted to own them.
…
I started saving up, the nickels and dimes, the food money that my mother gave me, the money I got from doing chores, etc. As you can see, I could be very resourceful when I wanted to be. Soon I had enough to buy my very first book.
I was in awe as I held it in my hands. It was mine, all of it, all of its pages, all of its words, and all of its emotions. People never understood the value of a book, the power that it held between its pages was immense. The thought that you could simply turn a page and experience someone else’s emotions, their love and loss, and their adventures. How could you not want that?
Soon I became greedy, I began hoarding any and every book that I came across. It came to a point where I did not have any more space left in my room. If you were to enter my room you find books upon books stacked, on the floor, in my closet, on my bed, and everywhere.
My mother grew exasperated with me,
“Why so many books?” she asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
But I wasn’t content, seeing my precious beauties scattered across the room so haphazardly made me furious, they deserved more!
I decided to build a shelf. It didn’t cost much and arrived soon, the happiness I felt as I put it together couldn’t be put into mere words, it was a sense of fulfillment, peace, and security. This wasn’t just a mere shelf; it was a home. I was building a home for my books, a tiny universe to contain multiple worlds.
I was ecstatic.
…
Time seemed to stand still when I was surrounded by my books, I would just let the pages flutter between my fingertips and let their scent surround me. Then it was just the whispers of unsaid words lulling me to peace and carrying me off into someone else’s dreams.
But that wasn’t the only thing that I liked, because though I had given them a home, I still had to take care of them. I had to clean and dust them, and I loved every minute of it.
It was the most soothing task of the day. I could feel all my worries dissipate. There were days when my mother would yell at me, scream that I was doing nothing but spending time with “those books” and I’d get furious and run back to my room, my haven, and start dusting my books to stop myself from shaking. For a while, there would be peace.
Some days I would refuse to come out, just drowning between words and other worlds, the hours would fly by. I hardly cared. But one day my mother had had enough, she was consumed by fury and frustration as she marched up to my door and pounded on it in anger,
“Come out! You have been in there for days! Come out now!” she yelled.
Startled by the yelling, I opened the door hesitantly.
“What is it, mother?”
“What do you mean what is it?! We haven’t seen you in days! What have you been doing up here?!”
“Nothing, just reading.” I was confused by her anger.
“No. I have had it with you. I am getting you out of here, even if it is for a while. We are going on a vacation.”
“A vac…vacation?” I stuttered.
“Yes. A vacation! Anything to get you out of this room!” she practically shrieked.
“But…I don’t want to go…” my voice trailed off into silence as my mother looked at me furiously. Somehow, I knew she wasn’t going to let it go.
…
So, within a week we were all packed and ready to go to our grandmother’s place which was in a whole other town. I tried to bring a few books along with me, but my mother had none of it, she pitched a fit as soon as I mentioned it, saying that this was supposed to be family time and that she will not allow me to ruin it.
Sighing I put the books back on the shelf and looked at them longingly. I was leaving behind the only thing I cared about, sure it was only for a while, but I already missed them.
I shivered as I turned around, it felt as though cold fingers were wrapped around my soul and slowly peeling it apart. Gasping I quickly made my way toward the door and shut it behind me. I breathed heavily as I tried to calm my heart down.
What was that? That had never happened before. Trying to shrug it off I went down the stairs towards the car. Maybe I was imagining things.
“What happened?” my mother asked as she shot me the oddest of looks.
“You look pale.” She said sounding concerned.
“Nothing, just tired,” I whispered as I looked back at the house feeling uneasy.
…
The feeling of uneasiness did not dissipate. If anything, it felt as though there was a heavy stone weighing me down and choking me from within.
My family was cheering and singing along to the radio and all I could do was swallow back nausea and try not to vomit. What was wrong with me?
After driving non-stop for four hours, we finally reached my grandmother’s place. It was a quaint-looking town with lush greenery and an ever-present sound of chirping birds. It was a lovely place but not the kind of place one would like to stay at for more than a week.
“Children!” I heard my grandmother yell and laugh as she hugged my mother.
“Grandma!” My sister yelled and barreled towards her. My father watched fondly as they hugged and giggled. I stood by feeling out of place.
“And you…come here.” My grandmother laughed as she dragged me into a hug.
“Look at how tall you have become.” She exclaimed as she looked me over.
“Grandma…” I murmured and slowly extracted myself.
“Well, why are we all simply standing around? Let’s go inside.” She ushered us all in as my father and I carried in the bags.
It was an old house, probably standing there since long before my mother was born. It always held a feeling of warmth and love in it which was overlayed by a constant scent of caramel toffees which was probably due to my grandmother’s love of baking.
We dropped off the bags in our respective rooms and made our way back to the living room and relaxed on the couch. I sighed feeling a little better as I munched on my grandmother’s cookies.
“So, how have you all been? Why the sudden visit? Not that I am sad about it.” My grandmother asked.
“Oh, we just needed some fresh air and a break to spend some time as a family.” My mother replied, shooting me a look.
I rolled my eyes feeling tired and sunk into the couch.
“Is everything ok?” My grandmother asked hesitantly.
“Yes, mom. It’s just that rather than spending time interacting with people he’d spend hours with his books.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, your father was the same.” She said gently.
“Sure.” My mother scoffed and left. We sat awkwardly for a while until my father got up to follow her.
“Don’t worry about it.” My grandmother held my hand and continued, “She just feels sad that your grandfather spent more time in his library than with her.”
“Library?” I asked.
“Oh yes, I never let you in there before, but you’ll be more careful now I suppose. It’s upstairs. The very last room.”
I barely let her finish before I bolted upstairs towards the room.
…
It was magnificent. Beautiful brown shelves lined the walls and were stacked with book after book, filling them to the brim. I stood in awe taking in the scent and feeling almost lightheaded in excitement.
It felt like home. All these worlds and I could enter whichever I wanted. I had just begun to hear whispers when the door slammed open. It was my mother.
“No, oh no, no, no. We came to get away from all this. Not to fall back into it!” She yelled and dragged me out of the room. The same uneasiness settled in my gut as I looked back at the books.
…
It had been three days since I had arrived at my grandmother’s home, and every day just felt more and more suffocating as I stayed there. It felt as though I had lost an important limb or as though I was waking through a thick fog. It felt painful.
I’d wake up at night hearing whispers and seeing figures walk about in the shadows. I could taste the scent of paper and feel velvety pages between my fingers. There were days when my throat felt clogged with something like dust, and I could not stop coughing.
What was happening to me?
Twice my mother caught me trying to unlock the door to my grandfather’s library. Both times she pitched a fit, but the funny thing was, I couldn’t even remember walking toward it. I was losing time, there were chunks of time that I couldn’t remember where the only thing floating in my mind were the stories that I had read and the stories that I hadn’t.
…
A few weeks later our little trip had finally come to an end, and I didn’t know how to feel about it, on one hand, I was going to miss grandma but on the other hand, I knew I had to return to my book. The uneasiness and coughing were getting out of hand.
We were all gathered near the car and hugging grandma goodbye, I went forward once my sister was done,
“Bye, grandma,” I murmured as I hugged her.
“Oh, dearie, I’ll miss you a lot.” She hugged me tightly.
“I’ll miss you too,” I replied and turned around to enter the car when she grabbed my arm suddenly.
“Wait.” She spoke.
“…what?” I asked confused.
She pulled me close and whispered, “Don’t get lost.”
“What?” I was now completely bewildered but it did not seem as though she was going to speak any further so, I got into the car, and we drove away.
I turned and saw her watching us with a grim look on her face until we drove out of sight.
…
We finally reached home, and I sighed in relief, my mother watched me with a haunted look in her eyes as I raced up the stairs toward my room. I flung open the door and there they were, my books. I laughed in happiness, all my uneasiness disappearing as I ran my fingers over them.
I spent hours dusting and cleaning them, soaking in their presence.
I was truly home.
Once more I drowned myself in my books but this time, I noticed it was becoming harder to come back. Where at one point I spent days locked away in my room, it had become weeks of me staying hidden away.
At some point, even my mother stopped searching for me. She knew she was fighting a losing battle anyways.
It was quieter here. Just me and words. Pages of understanding.
Soon I didn’t want to return at all. Why live in one world when I could live in many? I started to fade into books.
I started to disappear. I was losing myself, but I felt content.
…
Soon only the words remained. Even between the pages, I could hear my mother’s screams. I could see her haunted eyes.
Yet, I felt disconnected from her pain, an observer just reading another story.
She would soon learn to live with it, just like my grandmother did.
