Historically Inaccurate

🌥 T H R E E 🌥

Rule number one of the library: No screaming in the library.

Rule number two of the library: No running in the library.

Rule number three of the library: Not losing your shit in the library.

Okay, I made the last one up, but that's beside the point. Case in point: I'm so getting fired. But you have to understand: I didn't think I'd see this man ever again, even while I was aware he was probably breathing the same air of the city I was in.

I like to hold on to foolish dreams, don't roll your eyes, I'm aware this was bound to happen but I was hoping it wouldn't— not until chapter five or something.

"Sol, are you alright?" Karim eyes me curiously when I stand up, pushing my chair to the side as I struggle to come up with a coherent sentence to give him.

"Lunch — I have the sandwich — in my book — backpack, yeah, backpack." And then sprint out of the circular desk, nearly falling over the little door that let me in on the first place.

"Wait, come back!" I can hear the guy from last night calling, his voice matching perfectly the one that haunted my dreams last night, before he murdered me with the screwdriver. Although, in all honesty, he had every right to murder me and a fork is a feeble excuse as a weapon to defend myself.

A librarian hushes him because he's still calling after me and I pick up my pace, the door to the back room seeming too far for the long strides I'm taking towards it, and that's considering I'm supposed to be tall.

I close the door as quietly as possible behind me. Sighing and covering my face as soon as my back touches the nearest bookshelf. There are two other aids in the room, but I chose to ignore their curious glances and instead focus on what just happened.

He found me. He works for the CIA and the fork that I stole must be some type of new gadget the Russians made and I managed to snatch it from under his nose so he has come to take me out. I mean the Winstons always seemed too nice to be normal elderly neighbors. They must be spies. I watch The Americans, I would know.

He could have also come to check out a book, but that would be too boring, besides, why would he have called me out? He's clearly come to finish the job.

The door to the room opens once more and I stop myself from saying "chingada madre" out loud, which technically means fuck—or fucking mother (not in that literal context, mind you), but closer to fuck, either way it's not language you want to spew out in front of your supervisor, who is the person that walks in after the door has been opened.

Miranda is a five foot, thirty seven year old woman, who has two cockatoos and five lizards. She told me all of these details herself, as well as the names of all of her pets, but all of these had been said to me when she was passing me books or hanging out with me in our lunch break, usually accompanied with laughter and photos of said pets. She doesn't look like she wants to kill me or is ready to fire me at the moment by any means, but she does have a seriousness around her shoulders.

"Sol, what just happened?"

I don't think opening up about the theories I have about the guy that came in and pointed at me are the sensible answer. Nor is it asking her whether she might know if the back room has a secret exit that I might not be aware of, because I'm pretty sure the guy saw me enter this exact room and I do not feel inclined to exiting it any time soon.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have screamed. I saw someone and it brought back bad memories." I push my hair back, feeling everyone's eyes on me.

"The young man outside?"