The Outlier

TWELVE

"In its own way, that was much, much worse than any nightmare that my conscience could have laid upon me."

__

In the days following, my restlessness never seemed to fade. Much like I predicted, I didn't get much sleep in the coming days. The only time I got any sleep at all was after exhausting myself so much that I'd have no choice but to crash like I hadn't slept in centuries, not noticing the nauseating feeling that I felt when being wide awake. The theory I had regarding the Cullen family started sounding more and more plausible, though I couldn't tell you if it was the lack of sleep talking. 

After seeing a flyer for a job opening in Molina's Bookstore, I reckoned it would be a good idea to apply to find another way to consume my time other than driving around aimlessly for hours or staying in the school library much too late. The former was beginning to cost me quite a sum in the petrol department, and the latter was starting to have the school librarians somewhat concerned. So what better way to spend my time than in a bookshop in a world found in the pages of a book? 

I walked into the bookshop. Its dark teakwood shelves were piled high with old, yellowing books. I pulled out one from the shelf and began flipping through the pages. From the way they looked, I assumed the books were limited editions and almost antique— acquired through years of scavenging and travels. I could already picture what the shop owner looked like, my most vivid image being of a sophisticated man in his late fifties— well into his retirement fund— asking book clerks around the world questions no one has asked before he did. Only after a series of interrogative queries did he finally settle on buying his rare books. 

For years he foraged for enlightening novelties around the continental U.S, sometimes travelling outside the borders of North America. But as the skin on his face began to sag and wrinkle, his passion for travel began to lag and dwindle. His age no longer allowed him to travel the far distances he once could and he was limited by the binds of his steadily declining health.

On a dreary day, he drove to Washington on a stressful whim, his tire punctured on the road and he sat to witness the beauty of the weeping town before him while he waited for AAA to arrive at the scene and repair his punctured tire. It was like falling in love with book collecting all over again. He saw a town ripped out of the pages of a book and felt perfectly content staring out into the woods while the clouds' tears tapped lightly against the hood of his car. 

After the events of that day, he decided on establishing a permanent residence in Forks while he worked on manuscripts for any future works. For the first time, he was no longer watching the world of literature enthusiastically from the sidelines— he was experiencing every emotion that came as he strolled around the vast meadows of writing. 

He thought of it as a form of good karma— when the universe made it difficult to travel freely, he was given the opportunity to fly through the dimensions of his imagination with a pen and paper. And he planned to do all from the comfort of his own little book hut, in which he shared his love for words with the townsfolk of Forks and anyone who walked through the doors of his wooden domain of knowledge.