For the Love of God

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THE SMELL OF BOOKS consumed me as I stepped onto the wooden floors of the building. The looming doors shut behind me slowly, the soft thud echoing through the carefully designed walls. I searched for Mr. Davis, the thin man who preferred to have the collars of his shirt turned in. He was young and handsome with a thin line for a moustache, who seemed to know every inch of the huge library like the back of his hand, for it was now under his care.

"Mr. Davis?" I called, raising myself on my tip-toes and peeping in around his counter to see if he was crouched under somewhere, flipping registers to find a specific book. There was no reply to my call except for the weak repetition of my voice that made me smile.

I hooked my thumb around the strap of my handbag and looked around for any sign of him. The library was huge and had tall shelves which matched the height of the building's shoulders. Long windows were fitted in, each wearing a dark layer of glass designed to filter in only a thin sliver of light. No matter the time of day, whenever you stepped into the library it was always a royal evening; fancy lights and high-ceilings ready to whisk you off into an adventure. That was why this place was my haven; a place where I could forget anything and escape into numerous beautiful worlds - worlds full of unfathomable things.

I had been spending time in the library a lot more than I usually did, especially for the previous week. The reason was as simple and complicated as sheer heartbreak - the kind which not only tore your heart into two but also your mind and self as well. I couldn't put myself back together and I assumed, nor could anyone. The scar had embedded itself into my soul, deep and hurting, a permanent reminder of unrequited love.

Mr. Davis had noticed my frequent visiting and questioned me subtly last Wednesday. I was tired of spilling out my feelings to my own self and hearing my pathetic voice crying in my mind. The only person who always heard me out and stood by my side would have been the bearer of my heart, if he hadn't crushed it into mere dust of nothingness.

Ivan Brentwood was my best friend. I had wrongly assumed that he was my soulmate.

Over the years, my feelings had grown for him like a filling pot of molten gold, until it had brimmed up to the top and spilled out one fateful evening. He had rejected me as kindly as possible, so keen to lessen the blow to my heart when he admitted he was in love with someone else. He had held me close, brushed my hair slowly and patted my head in apology while I stayed in his arms, frozen. What was true was that he loved me - like a sister, a best friend and a pillar of everlasting support but nothing more.

I had ordered myself to move on, learned how to cover up the bleeding wound with an overly-pleasant smile and tried not to act like a kicked out puppy in the rain. The mask I had carefully knitted came close to slipping down when he brushed my fingers or played with my hair or threw his arm over my shoulders. It took everything in me to refrain myself from putting my arms around him and weeping, begging him to return my love and call me his. I was aware of my self-control fading away so I distanced myself; holed up in the safety of the library, in the embrace of stories.

Last Wednesday, I poured my heart out to Mr. Davis and he only smiled sadly at me after I was done. "No one is immune to the bruises of love and war, darling. But, they heal. They always do," he'd said. He had given me a book called Trials of Love and had asked me to give it a read if I had time to spare.

I was back in the library to return the book and to thank him for it because it was such an endearing read. The words were like band-aids on my scars, helpful but not remedial. And I needed another one of these special band-aids to help numb my aching soul.

"Mr. Davis? I have come to return the book," I said, but I was met with silence again. I weaved through the rows of shelves, trying to spot his dark mop of hair. I crossed the aisle dedicated to the 20th century and entered the fiction section of the 19th century. The brass plates nailed onto each row were labeled with black calligraphed genres and they felt cold against my touch when I traced them, absent-mindedly.