My Bookshelf Is Crooked

Un-Tilt the World

Peter's head seemed to be balanced on a swivel. He took in the corners of the room, the stairs beyond, and everything else that caught his eye in fast succession.

"For a house with as much character as this one, it feels kinda empty," he finally remarked.

I felt my neck contract, like a turtle trying to disappear into its protective shell. It was instinctive, but it only took me a moment to work my way to why. I hadn't told anyone at work my living situation. That I was alone. I didn't want to explain why. I wanted to avoid, forget even, my past entirely.

I lurched for the glass in Peter's hand and nearly tripped over my own feet as I escaped the room. An oppressive, suffocating memory had rushed in with Peter's words. Even in his presence it managed to darken the edges of the room.

At the edge of my periphery, the bookshelf leaned.

"I'll get you some more," I blurted out. I needed to escape.

I didn't wait for Peter's response, or even dare to look at his face and see what he thought of my irratic behavior. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was used to it by now.

I took a deep breath as I stood at the sink, watching the water bubble to the top of the glass once more. My heart was still racing as if it could outrun the fear.

"Do you know this bookshelf is crooked?" Peter's unfazed voice reached into the kitchen after me.

I regretted inviting him in. The feeling hit me like the cieling falling in.

"You know, I don't think it's that broken. I could probably fix it for you." His voice faded as he spoke. "I just can't quite see..."

I could imagine him crouched down on the floor, lowering himself to see beneath the bottom shelf, to see the problem.

But I knew the problem. It was the shadow. He couldn't fix that, get couldn't make it go away. He couldn't stand the bookshelf back up or un-tilt the world.

My heart had taken off in another sprint when his words trailed off. I'd have rushed back to tear him away from his fixation, but my knees were too week. I was barely hanging on to the sink's edge.

"Do you have a flashlight?" Peter poked his head past the doorframe and into the kitchen. His determination melted into concern. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," I gasped automatically. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." He was at my elbow bow, pulling me around. I hadn't even heard him cross the room. "I think you need a doctor."

"I don't." I tried to push him away. Now that he was out of the library, the walls didn't feel like they were squeezing in anymore. I could breathe a little easier.

And the shame was starting to sprout from my chest.

"Something is clearly wrong."

That was true. The world had been wrong for the last six weeks. But that wasn't the problem now. Peter was clearly going to need an explanation.