The Library at Midnight

Chapter 2: Starting at the C.

My bag was hitting my side and the position of the books were very evident considering I would probably have a bruise on the back of my thigh from them. My shoes were wrapped up in my arms and the laces were flouncing everywhere. Yes, before you ask yourself, I was running across the campus in my socks which, if it wasn't embarrassing enough, were covered in cats with balls of yarn. In my defense, they were on sale.

I passed maybe twenty students and I could feel their eyes on me. Not saying that the sight before them was extremely common, because, let's face it, it wasn't. Especially in this school. I couldn't even believe it, but, lo and behold, here was little me running through flower petals in no shoes and my kitty socks. I couldn't hide the rosy red on my cheeks or the tears welling in my eyes. I didn't even know why I was crying.

I juggled my shoes to rely fully on my left arm that it wouldn't let them fall during my sprint and wiped the last remnants of tears from my cheeks. My ponytail slowly slipped through the dark magenta waves that was my hair color. I reached up and slid the falling band through the rest of my hair and wrapped it around my wrist, allowing the red to fall behind.

I stopped for a second to look around, running my fingers through my wavy locks. I had no idea where I was. While causing a commotion, I noticed the students watched idly while I looked back and forth, eventually choosing to turn right and hoping for the best.

When I finally reached the dorm, I ran up the stairs, into my room and slammed the door. Without an extra thought, I threw myself into my work or anything to keep me from confronting the actual problem and the thoughts. I threw my bag on the ground under my desk, turned up Spotify and started cracking on the abandoned boxes that were scattered all on my side of the room. It was kind of a sore sight. They would sit there for months unpacked if I didn't start now.

Being productive when I'm emotionally unstable became a habit but I guess it's to be expected when you grow up with a workaholic influence, a.k.a. my father who lived, breathed music.

I grabbed my first box, took a pair of scissors from my bag and slashed the top through the line down the middle. After taking a peek inside, I started putting away the neatly folded bundles of fabric. The few dresses I owned went in the closet, jeans in the drawer, the usual procedure. As I hung up my clothes, I noted the change in style I had undergone over the years. What was once full of bold colors and sophisticated outfits was now replaced with blacks, greys and blues. There were hoodies, cardigans and long sleeves taking up the majority of my closet while jeans and sweatpants overtook my dresser.

After I was done with clothes, which only took maybe twenty to thirty minutes, my dad's favorite arrangement smuggled its way into the playlist and, coincidentally, the lucky box that was opened next was my keyboard. I probably should've noticed it, but my mind was elsewhere.

I pressed pause on my phone and lifted the lid. I glanced down at the sleekness of the black body and the slick white of the keys. Black and white have always been my favorite colors: no confusion or complex middle shades, just the two simple extremities. I pulled out the keyboard with the legs and the pedals following soon after. I assembled the pieces quickly out of habit and placed it opposite of my desk.

I slid my fingers over the keys, feeling and taking in the smooth of the white and the ridges that the black created. I pressed down on middle C and listened to the note as it resonated in the room.

I stood there with the key trapped under my index finger for what felt like years. I pulled the chair from my desk as I sat and stared at the keys. I pressed down on the key a second time, this time closing my eyes and listening to the note closely in the soft silence of the room. I opened my eyes to look at the board again. My fingers were itching to glide across the keys again, one more time, but there was just this feeling that stopped me. Everytime.

Brinley rushed in in a flustered bundle of guilt and I shot out of my chair earning myself a smack from the metal bed above me. "Ow, shit!" I fell back into my chair and swung myself around to face the door while simultaneously holding the back of my now throbbing head.

"Ro! I'm sorry! It was rude and selfish and you should play when you're rea- what happened?" Her voice went from flustered to curious in mere seconds. She looked at me in a confused daze.

"I, uh, hit my head. No biggie. Ow, dear God," I explained. "Why isn't this bar softer?"

"Because it holds up your bed," she answered while walking to her dresser. She pulled out a maroon long sleeve and a pair of dark, light-wash clean-cut skinny jeans and walked out of the room, leaving her duffel in her chair.

I exhaled a breath and looked at the piano. I quickly closed the lid over the keys careful not to let it slam. Dad always said if you slammed the lid the keys wouldn't let you play them anymore and though i never believed it, I never slammed. I could never bring myself to do anything other than place the lid gently. I furrowed my brows a little then plopped down on the ground and grabbed at another box. 

It was heavy and I struggled to pull it over, but I was too lazy to physically stand up like any normal person. I continued to lay on the ground trying to grasp the damn thing until, magically it moved a foot towards me.

"The Force exists!" I shouted victoriously. I looked up only to see Brinley with her foot slowly pushing the box towards me. I frowned and dropped my head to look towards the cod floor. "Nevermind..."

"You're a nerd," Brinley laughed. I smiled slightly while pulling the box to sit directly in front of me. She chuckled again and grabbed her bag from the chair only to sit next to me in the same position. Her hair was in a ponytail now and she was changed. She did look different when her hair was up, but in a more relaxed sense. I liked it, but then again, I was more for the relaxed look than the elegant look this school sported around. 

I started pulling bundles of newspaper from the box, unraveling them as I went, revealing memory after memory, ranging from my loner ages of middle school to the naivete of grade school. I stared blankly at a picture in a vintage silver frame, taking in every shade of color it had to offer, absorbing every pixel that made up the glass-covered moment. It was from when I was younger and dad was alive. He had a hobby of photography. His favorite model was mom. 

I stared at my mom from twelve years ago who was wearing a loose white v-neck with a pair of dark jeans. A grey sweater was hiding the pale of her arms and the sun was peeping through her wind-scattered hair. She was crouched down and facing the right but looking at him out of the corner of her eye. A small smile tugged at her lips as she willed herself not to smile. Her hand held outstretched with a smaller hand placed at her fingers and as my eyes searched the picture, I saw the five-year old me; looking up at the radiant perfection that I would soon later be chasing and clinging and fighting for. 

I swiped my thumb across the glass, lost in the labyrinth of my time-frozen mind. 

"Ro? You okay? Your hands stopped movin'," Brinley inquired. I snapped my attention to her face. 

"What? Yeah, yeah," I made a nonchalant face, waving off the subject. "I'm great." I stood up and placed the picture on the shelf up by my bed and took one more look before clearing the subject from my mind. 

It's different now. She's different now.   

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Hi guys!

I'm really sorry I haven't updated. It's been... rough to say the least the last few months. But if you are still reading, I thank you. It means a lot to me. I hope you liked this update. I've been working on it in small patches over the months. Thanks for reading! If ya like it, tell me about it. Don't forget to comment and vote. (:

Love ya!

MacyBaby78