I see them everywhere I go now; beneath the bookshelf, in between the cracks of the cobbled road, and in every dip of the floor boards. They are there, waiting to rip open the ground under my feet and pull me down into the dark and bury me whole.
I can't quite convince myself that this fear is irrational, not after what has already happened, not after seeing all my neighbors disappear forever.
Not long after I moved, I found a job in a little coffee shop just up the road. It's only 5 minutes by train and only 15 by foot. Some mornings, after a particularly bad night, I'll take the train, even though my legs are young and strong. My heart simply can't take the fright that comes with passing each shadow in the morning sunlight.
There are even some days where I cannot convince myself to go into the back storage room and get the extra bag of coffee grounds needed to start the day. My coworkers all think I'm afraid of the dark. I can't imagine what they would think if they knew the truth, but they take what they know in stride and work around my quirky nature.
On the worst days, Peter will ask to walk me home. I don't know why. I don't know what he sees on those days. I'm sure he has some expectation for the future, but I'm too selfish to tell him otherwise. On those days, I need someone, anyone, and he's all I have now.
I suppose there's a part of me that hopes the Earth might spare me another day if he's there. So far, it's worked. My bookshelf hasn't dissappeared, the shadows have stayed where they belong, and the dips in the old, wood floor have not sunk any lower.
YOU ARE READING
My Bookshelf Is Crooked
General FictionI 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.
