sjsprWriting

“Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.”-Edgar Allan Poe

We deny ourselves, I think. We hide and we bury the parts of ourselves we think are too ugly for this world to understand. But no one can keep it up forever. Eventually it all comes bursting out like shrapnel and the bodies hit the floor faster than you can scream, “Run.”

I did something today. I had thought that, maybe if I ignored it, it’d stop being true. I thought—hoped, it would go away or change. Like when you binge on something you love as a kid and as soon as you hit those teen years, the same thing just makes you sick and nauseous. I figured I could put it all behind me and finally move forward, unburdened.

But I’m not only a fool; I’m also an excellent liar.

I did something today. I was feeling proud and happy and I thought, “I’m stronger now, I’ll be fine.” There’s a bookstore a block away from my apartment. It’s small and quaint, owned by a friendly elderly couple. I have strategically avoided it to the best of my ability. But today I walked down that street, both familiar and unwelcoming, and I pushed open the door to Edna’s and Darla’s. A small bell above the door alerted them to my presence like blood in the water, and they smiled and greeted me with a warmth I didn’t deserve.

I still don’t understand what compelled me to go into that bookstore. If it was really pride or if something inside me was finally exhausted.

The shelves seemed to be ready to burst apart with books. I had never imagined that a small bookstore could have so many. I stood there for a moment and stared; I could feel dread settle in me like a stone and a growing sense of frantic desperation beginning to claw itself up from the void in which I had damned it to.

Edna, or maybe it was Darla, placed her hand on my elbow and asked me if I was feeling all right. “You’re looking a little clammy there, sweetheart.” Her eyes were gentle and wise and for a second, I was terrified she could see the parts of me that hid in my flesh and bones.

I gave her a shaky smile and said that I was perfectly all right, just a little sleep deprived. I moved away from their concerned gazes and walked deeper into the bookstore. The shelves seemed to tower over me, closing me in, sealing me off. I let my hand touch the spines of the books beside me as I walked, watched the pattern in colors with a detached sort of interest. A segment of blue here, black over there. And then a line of color that looked like a splitting gash across the wall; red, beating and bleeding. I could hear my heart thumping away in my ears, could feel the rush of the blood in my veins and suddenly everything seemed to clear away as I focused on this one book. The spine a deep rusty-brown, the title printed in a striking gold; it drew me in like a moth to a flame. I carefully pulled it from its brothers and scrutinized it from front cover to back. I flipped through the pages and inhaled that musty, old tome smell.

There was a roaring in my head then, before the world went silent. The rest of the day seemed like a dream. I walked back to the front of the store and paid for my book. Edna or Darla grinned at me and winked, “You chose well! That’s one of my favorites. Hope you enjoy it, honey. And come back soon, you hear!”

I walked out. And then there was only reading. I read and read and read, neglecting and ignoring everything that wasn’t printed on those pages. I consumed and swallowed the words, taking in everything as quickly as I could because I needed to reach the end, I needed to be done.

568 pages.

And then suddenly, I was done. I came up for air as if I had been held underwater. My eyes were dry and stinging, exhaustion making them ache. But I was done and the clock told me it was four in the morning. Just like that I wasn’t tired anymore. That frenzied, desperate energy I had felt in the bookstore came back now, rearing its ugly head. It spilled out of me, invaded every crevice of my person and I was laughing and laughing and laughing as I clutched the book to my chest. The desperation bubbled up and out and I gazed down at this well-loved and worn book and I was clawing at it then, ripping the pages from the spine and shivering with pleasure at the sound. Yanking and splitting it apart, tearing it asunder piece by lovely piece. I could almost imagine it screaming at me but there was screaming and it was just me, me, me as I tore into it. I broke it apart until only the pieces remained, fluttering below me. The carcass dropped from my shaking fingers and I stepped over it, knowing and anticipating what came next. I fumbled into my closet, pushed away the boxes in the back until I found it, what I had taken away from myself. I held it in a tight fist as I went back.

I picked up every piece. It seemed like I was another person then, but I picked it all up. I placed them together in a pile with the carcass strewn at the top and if I squinted I could almost imagine it was a grave. I kept expecting to feel something—something else, but there was only a dark satisfaction quietly singing through my veins.

I opened my fist and flicked open my lighter.

I watched the flames lick away at a world and its people and it felt incredible, it felt powerful to destroy something so beautiful. Laughter spilled out of me even as I touched my fingers to my cheek and they came away wet, and I wondered how I had thought I could have ever stayed away from this.

I did something today.