But my Love is Schizophrenic

That Tap

The even, rhythmic tap could be heard shelves over from where I sat, and it was beginning to get painfully irritating as it paused for about a minute and then resumed to its earlier tune.

If I could manage to confront the anonymous stranger, who I'm pretty sure isn't really a stranger at all, a good couple feet away and politely ask them to stop their boring monotonous strum of nimble fingers against wood, then I would have. But in all honesty, that would be a huge waste of energy when I, instead, could be mindlessly indulging myself into the spacious imagines of fantasy.

Suddenly, the melodic pattern came to halt, and either this person, a male, I presume by curious observation of how the tapping was of heavy thuds, had fallen asleep or they came to a realization that they were in a library and should remain as quiet as possible.

Either way, it was pleasant to have the muteness once again settled around my small person huddled against the sofa chair; knees bent around the left arm with my feet hanging down the side of it as my back rested against the right arm of it. 'The Framework under the Sheets' was balanced gingerly across my knees, glancing from the book in my lap to the small passageways between shelves where the once-incessant tapping had now ceased to exist just a minute prior.

People had laptops and phones strewn across their legs as they typed away, whether it was a text message or work projects, it sickened me.

They abused the quiet that only a library could possess, and it angered me to see such ignorant human beings wasting its peacefulness among their shitty stuff they need done. Go finish it somewhere else, you assholes.

A small child, who appeared to be of a young age, maybe around six, was begging a lady who couldn't have been more than twenty-six, presumably her mum, for a children's book. I couldn't quite see the title of it, but it wasn't worth the effort of bending my neck to get a glance of it.

Returning my much deserved attention back to the novel perched atop my knees, the tapping continued and at this point I was nowhere near calm now, at the edge of telling that anonymous dickhead to fuck off. This was my library. Or at least it used to be; before it got really popular by attaining more 'appealing' books, and by that I mean sappy romance novels.

I remember when it was first built, and my aunt, who was the one who took me in when my mum died and my dad disappeared; before she died, brought me here and taught me how to read. And now it's my second home, where I come six days a week for four to six hours to escape life at the children's home.

A gentle ring of the chimes above the library door signalled a new arrival. I wasn't interested in who else was invading and mis-using the book-filled palace, and whoever they may be, they better stay the fuck away from me.

I don't need more distractions.

Leaving the chair I was so comfortably crunched into, I stood, and in turn my neck gave a satisfying 'crack' upon stretching. The library closed in exactly seventeen minutes, but most likely everyone would be kicked out in fourteen.

I replaced the book in the right space in the middle shelf of section 4, Floor 3, Letter F, in between 'Foster Home of Ghosts' and 'Friendly River Outside'. Which are both very good books as well.

Turning on my heel to march to the desk and bid my farewell for the day to the older lady, Mrs. March, who was the manager of this twelve-year old building as well as my friend.

She used to give me candy when I was small and I used to check out ten books at a time; and when I was finished them at the three weeks due date, we would sit down at her coffee break and I would explain them all to her.

She never seemed to be bored, and would just listen curiously to my exaggerated re-telling of the stories; while she made me tea and gave me sweets.