Shards fell and luckily I was wearing pants, but they fell at my feet. I kicked off the shards and brushed them off as I stood. Looking up I saw Intratcher lying on the ground and rubbing his head. It took me a few seconds to process that my pushing...
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My only escape from the wretched phenomenon we call reality is the pages and text between books. Life can be disgusting in times like this, and I can't help but think there's an outside force in my cortex telling me to take a permanent escape. I always hated fantasy books until I understood the readers. I thought they were a dumb excuse for weirdos to read beastiality and act smart with their 500 pages of written porn. Even now I'd never be caught dead reading Twilight.
But there is one thing that always lingers at the back of my mind: What would happen if someone gains memories that don't belong to them? Realistic fiction is restricted to what's realistic and what isn't, Fantasy is unpredictable, and these books are helping me accept the unpredictable. High fantasy and low fantasy, science fiction and dystopian. Every piece of literature is different.
I had been sitting at my solo table in the library and had just closed my first book of the day. There was nothing better to do and it was the one place I knew I'd see nobody from school. Any available time I had to leave the house was like heaven to me, and if it meant staring at the white library walls against the empty chair in front of me, that's just how it was. My mom was finally home, and it's true you think the highest of people in scary times.
She's not fine at all, senile, and has a doctor's appointment coming up. For some reason, a random Monday is the perfect juncture to pester me over everything I didn't do while she was in the hospital. She'd been caring extra hard since she was the only one caring at that point. My dad just wasn't talking to or looking at me. When he does he's suggests something stupid. The dinner we had the night my mom came home my father asked me if I "wanted to go on an acid trip—homie." Before throwing up a sign. That had been the last dinner we had all together since she was back.
Lucky me, there was a library within walking distance of my house. Pushing my chair in, I approached the turn-in tray and placed down my book, slipping my unfinished borrowed book into my leather satchel, which hung across my body. Taking a deep breath in preparation for the frost of the snow outside, droplets melting on my hair once I began walking back home.
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