Intercede

So this morning I woke up, and that seems to be how I always start my stories. As if my life was made up of thousands of day-long stories. As if there was no continuation. I can get lost reading Sartre and it makes my whole day feel like something else, and the next day, not remember the faintest emotion. Anyways, this morning, I woke up, and I felt a story pulsing in my veins. That always seems to be how I live my life; a series of stories waiting waiting waiting to get out.

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This story was about a girl, long and white. She had eyes like bruises, fragile and papery skin around those eyes. Long white legs and long white arms and long dark dark hair. She was not sad, really, just quiet. She was just beautiful, and no one had ever touched those long dead limbs since she lost her mother.

This story was about a beautiful, dark, old place- a bookstore full of unloved, unwanted books. A bell hung over the door, and it rang twice every day: once when the girl came in, and once when she left. This girl lived there as long as she was awake, sorting them, touching them, waiting for them to come to life.

She was an empty girl, hollow and rice-papery. She had no friends but the friendless books- no friends but the friendless. She had never shared secrets, never known friction, never made love. She had no promises to fill her. She had no memories that sustained her.

For twenty-four years she had lived a life like this, and she was so vulnerable. She kept thick shelves of books all around her; her own shell was so thin. You would think she believed the books would one day become vocal, thank her, befriend her, make love to her.

The sky was raining typewritten letters down, and she stood in the shop window like a mannequin for twenty minutes watching the strange rain. Then she went into the desk, and there was a long coil of rope in the top drawer. She had been waiting waiting waiting for this day. Dreading it. Her dark eyes were like an endless muddy well and she didn't care to learn what was at the botton. She tied the end of the rope to the rafter.

The bell rang.