My bookshelf is crooked.
It stares at me from across the room with a slanted expression, but I pay it no heed, as I haven't for the last six weeks. This is our routine now. It glares accusingly, and I avoid any contact that will give the impression that I notice its current predicament.
I've even started using the back entrance to maintain an appropriate distance from the problem.
This means that I now have to squeeze through the side gate that only opens a quarter of the way and dodge the trash bins that everyday seem to have some new suspect stain, but the route accomplishes my goal. If I don't take any books from the shelf, or even pass it by, I can still claim ignorance; even if it's willful, even if it isn't true.
And yet, as much effort as I have put into this practiced indifference, everyday I contradict myself as I sit on the faded couch across the room and sneak glances at the crooked bookshelf from the corner of my eye. It seems every day that the problem becomes more severe, but I can't bring myself to fix it. You see, it's now something of an oddity in this perfectly pretentious house.
Just like me.
YOU ARE READING
My Bookshelf Is Crooked
Ficção GeralI knew the shadows were trying to swallow me. I didn't know that was the least strange thing that was going to happen. My Bookshelf is Crooked: A serial fiction about an odd girl in an even odder world.
