DayWalkers

One Shot

Once upon a time, my father died. It might not be a right way to start a story, I guess but then I was never a creative person. My father tried to save a kid from a burning apartment. He was brave and foolish. I can never forgive him to leave me. My story is cliché. Well aren't all stories the same?

My mom was trying to speak to me about something but I was consumed by Linkin Park. These tunes are a soothing alternative to my mother's blabbering about her new husband, her new stepchildren and her new mansion in a small town. I don't belong there. The small rustic house in my father's hometown is my home.

My room was big, only room on that floor. My step father welcomed us with a warm smile. My ' brand new' siblings were as puzzled as me. 'Our' parents were too happy to observe this. It must have been rough on those kids too.

They let me have my dinner in my room just for this week.  Maybe John can sense the air of hostility and discomfort from the look on my face. His kids looked disappointed in me. Not my fault, I thought to myself. They expected too much from a brat like me.

My 'new' siblings often like to wander off to the Market Road. They said to me that I will get tired counting the stores and stalls set up there. I hate crowded places, something unusual for a big city kid.

I might not be a creative soul but I loved reading and there was big library down the street, which could have been the largest in the world if it was not transformed into a Trade Center, which was apparently necessary for the town's growth and development as my stepfather said. During weekends and holidays, the kids in the neighborhood occupied every table in the library, leaving no room for me.But there was a place, right at the center of the library: a space between fantasy and nonfiction. It was weird, a mix of warmth and cold, as if it resonated with the ambiguity of the genres it resided within.Just a minute after I sat there, a blonde girl, of my age accused me of stealing her place but then she laughed it off.

She was beautiful like an angel. She looked as if she stepped out from one of the fairytales into reality. Wow, I sound like a typical admirer right now, but can't help saying it how it is.

We remained quiet for a few minutes. She was enjoying her book but her smile and her sparkling blue eyes were distracting. The warm light touched her skin and her fingers were playing with the golden hairs: an innocent romantic masterpiece.

"Are you reading that book?" she asked me pointing to my book: The Ender's Game. "...what are you staring at?"

"Your face..." I bit my tongue. What am I saying? Fool... I said to myself

She smiles and says "Don't mind, I am not your type. I am not like these kids who are here just for free air conditioner."

"I am here to read. Not for free AC room. I was just curious."

"About what?" she asked me with a rough tone but still maintaining that warm smile.

"...this spot right here, a mix of fantasy and reality, cold and warm, graced by beauty and intellect!"

She started to laugh and that is how we began to talk. We had a lot in common: our interest in traditional music, books and paintings. She told me she liked that place because this place brings her back to reality when she is lost in her fantasy.She was an interesting girl. We met every day on the exact same time: 01:30 pm to 03:00 pm, followed by a small meal.

My mother joked about me changing a little day by day and often inquired the reason behind it. My step-father guessed that I was in love. No, it was not a romantic story. I wonder if it was a 'Fairy Tale' or a 'Teen Fantasy'. They should be happy about this change though I was not happy with the fact that my step siblings were using it as a laughing stock.