Monday 27th August, 2040.
Mansion- Section 1, Quarter 1.
7:05am.
___________________I spent most of the weekend reading and re-reading all the information I took down from the book and comparing them with things I found online on Universe. To say there were 'contradictions' between them is a huge understatement. It's like everything I have come to know is a complete farce. Everything I have believed is a lie. The Union, the Sections, Russia...
One thing I know for sure is that there cannot be two truths. Either the book is the lie. It is a complete lie that was written by someone wanting to stir up trouble.
Or worse, the Union is the lie.
And the last thing I want to believe is that the Union is a lie. Believing the Union is a lie is like turning on the Big Three. It's like agreeing with Winter's constant questioning of what the Union's main goal is. It's like siding with Rory about wanting the Union to be disbanded. I shudder.I try convincing myself about the impossibility of the Union being a lie. But every time I remind myself of why I trust the Union, I find myself wondering why I can't remember the political aspect of life before the Union. It feels like a mental block that just looms in my mind keeping me from accessing my own memories! I hate that a part of me almost resonates with the book. Resonates with all the information I didn't know I was starved of until that stupid pointless dinner with Rory Ackerman.
By early Monday morning before school, I plead with Knockout to take me to the Library for a quick sweep of another chapter in the book. I have to finish chapter five and then read chapter six. Chapter six was an assessment of the Quarters in each of the Sections. I cannot wait to read it.
When I get to the library, the odd man that I met at the circulation desk is nowhere to be found. Instead, a middle aged lady sits and flips through the pages of the Daily Union Newspaper. I ask her where Mrs. Priscilla Byron is. She tilts her head to the side with a look of confusion and says there's no one that goes by that name here. I gape at her and I try to not act visibly surprised but my suspicions of this library begin to kick in.
Is Priscilla Byron merely a person's name or is it a passcode to the book? And if it is a passcode it's clear not everyone that works here is aware of it. I want to probe this lady but I remember the words of the man from Friday. He told me the first lesson I would learn is to not ask questions. So I keep my mouth shut and head into the library in search of the book.
I head straight to the history section and I search book after book, shelf after shelf but I cannot find the book. I search for about thirty minutes, getting more and more frustrated as time passes. I'm sure if I don't leave now I will be very late for school. I exit leave the library with questions racing through my mind. Why wasn't the book there? Did the man take it with him?Classes go by fast. I don't pay much attention to my teachers. None of their words seem to matter because I keep thinking about the book. I can't stop thinking about Mr Miller as well. I know I have to meet him and somehow force him to make all of this to make sense in my head. He obviously knows about the book so he's my best option at this point.
But when it's time for history class, Instead of Mr Miller, a young woman with sandy brown hair struts into the classroom and declares herself the substitute teacher because Mr Miller is indisposed.
I remain rooted to the spot, unable to move or focus because nothing is making sense. What happened to Mr Miller?! The book at the library disappeared and now he is indisposed?
My head begins to hurt and I feel nauseous. I have this sick feeling in my stomach that something bad must have happened to him. That's why he was so hesitant to tell me which book to borrow. That's why there was so much trepidation and worry in his eyes when he wrote me the note. Did I... did I put him danger somehow? Did my constant questioning endanger his life. I swallow hard and try to shove down the guilty feeling rising up within me.
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