Dust
and forgotten memories line these walls. I cannot remember the last time I ran
a finger along this many spines shoved flush against one another. The digit
comes back grayish, the layers of neglect coating the pad and dusting into the
air behind its passing. My eyes follow the disturbance as dust lifts and falls,
a million points of tiny light in the waning sunlight. It is beautiful. It is
achingly miserable.
I
continue my tracing, walking along each wall slowly and changing shelves as I
go. A particular volume catches my finger. Something small and rectangular has
stopped my mute traveling. On a whim, I enclose my hand around its thick
leather cover and carefully free it from its home.
Blowing
a puff of air, I relieve it of its dust and read the title under my breath. Fahrenheit 451. A bookmark stands out
from a point somewhere near the story’s end. Someone was reading this and never
got the chance to finish it. I touch the small protruding piece of cardboard
with a shaking fingertip. That this should be the novel my wandering hand found
feels less than coincidence and more a sign. The implications quicken my heart,
sending my labored breath out in short, quiet gasps. I trace the slightly
raised letters in fearful reverence. My hand trembles and stops just shy of
opening the book, fears launching forward to attack my resolve.
“You’ve
come this far,” I tell myself, tell my squeezing heart and fluttering stomach.
The
book falls open to the marked page, and I cradle it inside the crook of my arm
as if I am holding an infant. The bookmark has long faded, its message no
longer discernible. There is a hush in the air that has nothing to do with the hidden,
half buried library I stand in. The world seems to be holding its breath,
waiting for me to dare read out loud what has been forbidden for more than a
decade. Stale air fills my lungs and burns my throat as I dredge in a deep
breath.
My
voice drops from my lips without buoyancy, settling onto my shoes with all the
grace and authority of dripping paint. I stumble over words, add pauses and
syllables where there are none, but I am reading. My voice begins to gain
strength with each word unpunished, every new line leaving me with more fervor
and confidence.
My
voice falls silent as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, its final rays
suddenly too thin and far apart to pierce the cold darkness any longer. I
cannot bring myself to close the book, even as the letters become
indistinguishable. Doing so would break the magic I only just reawakened. I
stand on my toes, novel still open in my slender grasp, and peek through the
narrow window above my head. Industry smog billows out of factories that dot
every corner, yellowing the air and clogging the senses. Tiny houses slump in
their shadows, their inhabitants not yet home from the day shift. The children will
come first, black skinned from coal dust. They’ll file into their houses two at
a time, always one boy and one girl, and begin preparing the day’s meal. I
crunch my nose as a wayward strand of sunlight flashes into my eyes just before
going out entirely. Another day gone, and now I will be late with supper.
Finally
closing the book and sliding it back into place, I take a moment to look down
at my standard issue overalls. They are too short and faded, the frayed
material far from its original light blue. The thought of another day in the
mine sparks a moment of madness. I imagine living here in the library, hidden
away from the patrols and their stun guns. I could sneak in food, drink water
from the creek. No one would know. They would search for a day, a week, but
then the order would inevitably come down that Mother and Father should begin
preparing for my replacement. They would be given a new daughter, a new “Hally”.
In a month, I would be long forgotten.
The
irrationality left me as quickly as it came. Of course they would find me. They
always find the runners, the hiders. Revolution used to churn the air and bate
the breath of the people, but now there is nothing but coal dust and broken
spirit rattling in and out of their lungs. Of course they would find me.
The
sudden bells of the clock tower are what finally push my feet across the room,
past the shelves with their hidden treasures and lies about better times. I
sink onto my knees and crawl into the tunnel I found weeks before. I fell upon
it by accident, my weary feet stumbling me into the wall one night after shift.
I nearly missed it then, too, but my toe caught on the little opening and sent
me sprawling. When my eyes lifted and saw the hole just big enough for a girl
my size to slink through, I knew instantly that it should be avoided and kept
secret. Something forbidden and infinitely exciting filled the air that twirled
around the entrance of that mysterious cave. Only today did I find myself with
enough courage to follow it.
Outside,
the smog settles in my throat with a familiar burn. I swallow against it and
carefully stand. No one is there to see my exit, and I start toward the house.
At the end of the road I turn the corner and am surprised by bright sunlight.
It is not quite as late as I feared, the factory in front of the window having
created a false sunset with its great girth. I stare at the sun mutely as it
paints the sky red, purple, and gold. It seems to reach out and grip the houses
within its reach, warming them against their fate. A flag marked with the
symbol of our oppressors hangs weakly in the evening breeze, its folds barely
rustling as if in fear. The entire city seems to shrink into the waning light,
leaning towards it as it departs for just a moment more of its warmth. It is
beautiful. It is achingly miserable.
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