The Library

Tenth Scene

The next morning the room was an appalling mess: every object in it had been moved from its place. There were empty cups and glasses everywhere and above it all, the chickens roamed, agitated and making a racket.

'It's not even Tuesday,' was the first thought that popped in Gwen's head, and she examined it with detachment, surprised at how different one's habitual thought patterns became to fit the context.

That connecting Tuesdays with chickens was not in the range of thought processes sane people accepted proved to her the psychological normal was not a matter of clear mental standards, but a majority rule: you're normal if most of the people think like you.

"Who ate all the bread?" a voice, which she recognized belonged to No. 8, boomed over the chaos.

"Sorry," No. 3 sheepishly confessed. "That tea can build quite an appetite."

'What happens if whatever you intend to convey is so foreign to your fellow humans nobody resonates with it? Do you not say it, then? And if you do, does it have any more meaning than a nonsensical poem?'

"How many times do I have to tell you," No. 8 advanced towards him comically, trying to clamber over a chair and a pile of twisted blankets that were in his path.

Gwen expected him to start a fight when he reached the wrongdoer, but he gestured to the latter to scoot over instead, so he could sit next to him on the only couch that was still placed right side up. As he threw himself on it, he kept darting dirty glances at No. 3, who ignored him.

"Did you find any eggs?" No. 8 continued his quest for sustenance, staring at Gwen, displeased. She pointed to a bowl on the edge of the countertop, which miraculously escaped whatever had rendered the rest of the room uninhabitable.

'I can certainly think of things people would consider insane if everybody else didn't agree on doing them as a matter of course.'

"Thank the non-existent deities!" No. 8 mumbled, while he scarfed down three raw eggs. "I was ravenous!"

'Starching, for instance. Or his and hers showers.'

"You want some?" No. 8 generously offered her a couple of raw eggs, one of which had not been laid by a chicken.

"No, thank you."

Her stomach revolted, even more so since it was growling.

She hated No. 3 badly right now for eating all the bread, with complete disregard for everybody else's needs, only to realize altruism itself belonged to the behavioral category of things people only accept as normal because they all agreed to it.

"Are you hungry, my dear?" No. 4 raised his voice to reach across the room, because he didn't want to fight his way through the mess to get closer.

"Yes," she frowned. "Very."

"You know, people can live quite a long time without food. We all think hunger is an emergency, because our brains tell us to panic the second the stomach sends them the signal."

"Are you saying that because there is no food left?" Gwen cut the life lesson short.

"Of course. I could murder a pizza right about now," he mused, in a mellifluous tone that would have lent itself better to the recitation of poetry.

"Why would you bring up pizza?" No. 1 jumped to his feet in revolt. "Does anyone here remember the last time they had pizza?"

'And here's another one,' Gwen updated her mental record of oddities. 'Who makes bread and then slathers it with tomato sauce? Delicious.'