A Lil' Sanctuary

Slow, old from age, the doors creak and skitter open. Looking around, my old childhood home is in tatters. The front desk is empty, and the tables are covered in plastic, some in the middle of disassembly. The shelves have been ransacked, but a few lost and forgotten books lay across the floor. I stare at the dust as it falls through the sun rays and onto the floor, the wrapping, the abandoned carts. It's all so haunted now.

I remember the life this little library had. The laughter of children at storytime, the clacking of old IBM desktops, the sound of the broken cart - I called it Mr. Squeakers - being pushed around while Mrs. Merrywheather reshelved forgotten books. Even if I only sat in the back, invisible and forgotten, I like to believe I contributed to the vitality this place exuded. I like to think that, at least here, I belonged. But now, my home has been gutted and thrown away, and with it, my heart.

I spare the hollow rows and bare walls no mind, moving straight the back corner of the room, where the gaudy romantasy would be. Where the hot elves and the horrid goblins hung by the windows. Where my favorite loveseat sat, dustier than I saw it last. It's been wrapped, too, the leafy fall pattern of the 80's dulled by the translucent grey plastic. When I sit down, I can't hear the crinkle of the cover, only the familiar groan of the old springs compressing under my weight. It feels like hugging an old friend of mine, greeted with a wrinkled smile.

I smile back.

An oak table stands intact but covered like all the furniture here, and on it a few surviving books lay open. They seem to have been vandalized, neon highlighter and sparkly pen across all of the pages.

One bright pink passage catches my eye: His whole life, Amy had been told his heart would get him killed. That his search for freedom would end like all the rebels before him, in the belly of the beast. Standing here before it, little and nothing as a speck of cinder, he feels their warnings push against his lungs. Hears them wailing between his ears.

He's afraid.

Losing himself in his own whirlwind of bravado and gusto he'd forgotten to be afraid. Afraid of the consequences. Afraid to die. Afraid to leave behind nothing but another warning to the poor boys after him who tire of being afraid just as he had.

The Bane of his existence, his people, his world postures before him with gargantuan teeth and kingsley stature, and Amy chooses to forget again. Forget - no, refuse - to cower, beg and grovel.

"Take me," He demands, "Take me to the Belly where my ancestors and brethren lay. Where I will drain you dry and finally free their souls."

The Bane laughs.

Scribbled in glittery purple along the margins is a single note: Badass.

I huff in amusement. The other books are the same, I realize, all color coded and marked in different penmanship. A book club maybe? Or maybe just friends finding a little piece of sanctuary in the back of an old library, where no one would judge their fantasies and dreams. Like I had once.

"My book!" A voice squeals, startling me. A young girl picks up the pink marked book I'd just read, "How'd you get the doors open?"

She looks at me like she's expecting me to answer. When I say nothing, she gathers the other books as well, nonperturbed by my nonresponse, "My friends are going to be so happy to get their books back. Thank you."

She looks at me again, "Do you like 'To See the Stars'?"

I stare at her.

"Do you like fantasy at all? It's my favorite, so..."

She stares back.

"This was my favorite spot in the library," The girl sits on the second best chair here, newer and plain beige, but homey just the same, "I'm guessing it was yours, too?"

I nod, deciding to throw her a bone. Her braced smile was gigawatt wide as she nods along, "What was your favorite book?"

"'Across the Prairie'," I hadn't used my voice in so long, I hadn't known how much it changed.

But this girl isn't scared by me and simply gasps, stars in her eyes, "I love 'Across the Prairie'! Which one was your favorite?"

And again I answer, slowly finding myself more comfortable speaking again, asking questions back. How long had it been since I'd spoken, truly engaged, with another soul? How long had I been invisible, left alone to my own devices? Since I first held these fantasies in my hands, I suppose. Since even before I felt the warmth of a hug from an old library chair.

As minutes turned to hours, we spoke as though we'd known each other all along. As though I'd always had a place at this table with this young lady even if generations separated us.

When the nook we bunkered in darkens with the sky, Amy stands and stretches, "It's getting late; I should leave before someone realizes I'm here. But I liked talking to you!"

"And I, you."

"I hope I could help even a little," She clumsily bundles her and her friends' books into her arms, "The library is moving to Oak Street if you want to come to our next book meet. I'm sure my friends would like you. I'll see you around, Ms. Bij," Then, Amy turns and leaves. In-between the hollow shelves, past the plastic and dust and scattered books, and she even pats Mr. Squeakers on the way out the doors.

Huh. What a strange girl.

But I find she's lifted the weight against my chest, and dimmed the screaming loneliness between my ears. A smile ghosts across my face, and I laugh, perplexed by the day I had. By the friend I made.

"Thanks," With a whisper and a sigh, I leave too, up and away to see the stars outside these small walls. Now all that's left is a small nook, a little sanctuary. Packed away, but now, a bit less haunted. A shell of the home I'd left behind. No posters on the walls, no gaudy romantasy across the table. Just an old 80's loveseat that's out of style, ready to move onto someone new. Ready to hug the next lonely girl with nothing but fantasy and dreams in her hands.