The Girl and the Librarian

Flynn Carsen

It was Friday night, and Sara, a thirty-year-old, Welsh girl, was alone — as usual — as San Francisco bustled with people just getting off work and headed to the nearest pub. Her parents, whom she lived with until she got on her feet, had been gone for a few hours now. Shopping. She hated it; the people, the smell of public places. The only solace she found was when she went out was her iPod, blaring music to the point of tinnitus.

But something about this evening seemed off. She felt that something would happen, which she felt a lot. Sixty percent of the time,  she was right. The other forty, well, she tried to convince herself that it was better, but really, she enjoyed knowing that something happened. Because being left to guess — the unknown — scared her.

Halfway through binge-watching a cartoon about an alien and his crazy, robotic servant, she heard a loud rumbling sound, like thunder. She looked out the window and there were no clouds in sight.

Weird.

She then heard the back door rattling, as though someone was trying to get inside. Apprehensively, she got up, grabbing a television remote as a weapon on the way, and little by little, she made her way to the door.

"I've seen this film," she said to no-one. "I've dyed my hair brown, it's not blonde any more, therefore... I'm safe from horror cliques... right?"

Her hand hovered over the door handles a moment, and before she could pull, it blew open on its own.

At first, she saw nothing. Just darkness, but a roaring noise came through, as if a raging storm was passing by. She stared into the nothingness until something heavy and solid flew into her, sending her tumbling back. That something was a person.

Sara set the person down on the floor, propped up against the coffee table, and once she regained her footing, she quickly shut the door.

She studied the person — the man — his hair all sticky-uppy, and donning a fancy yet dishevelled three-piece suit and Converse trainers. With his upper body slumped over his lower half, she couldn't quite see his face. She could only think of one person who wore this on the regular: The Doctor.

He gained a bit of weight, she thought as she lightly touched his stomach.

Dark chocolate brown eyes popped open. The mysterious man shot up, lickety-split, sending Sara back once again, this time with a startled shriek. Frantically searching for something familiar, he whirled around to the point of making himself dizzy.

Timid, she raised her hand, half waving, half questioning like she was back in school, trying to get her teacher's attention. "Uh, hello?"

He immediately stopped, his handsome features hardening at the sight of her. A solemn eyebrow raised briefly. "Bonsoir, belle dame. Qu'est-ce qui t'amène?"

"I live here," she replied.

He appeared shocked. "You understood me?"

She shrugged her shoulders. Tersely, she said, "It's French. Secondary schoolers learn that."

The man tapped his lips with his index finger. "You're right, I should have picked a harder language. It would have made me look a lot better. Smarter. What is wrong with me?" Air hissed through gritted teeth when the man second-guessed his self-query. "Don't go there," As he looked for clues as to where he was, he said, "Also, don't mind me."

"Don't mind you?" she echoed, now irked. "You're over here tearing up my place."

"Right, again. I'm sorry. Although... is that a Welsh accent I'm detecting?" Responding to her nod, he added, "Ble ydw i ar hyn o bryd?"