Clarisse reflects. School project.

The Book Burner

They say your life flashes before your eyes the moment before you die. It seems a lot, to fit into such a short space of time. You remember the important stuff, I guess. Maybe that's why my mind seems locked on my uncle, the books, and him.

I first saw him a couple days after we moved in to my uncle's house. With one hand holding back the white, translucent curtains, I was looking out the window, just watching the empty, dim street. It had rained earlier when I was out, and with my window cracked open, water had gathered on the floor beneath it. I did not mind; I was wet myself, despite my coat. In my experience, water has a way of slipping in somehow, no matter how impenetrable something is supposed to be.

Nobody ever passes by the house; no one ever walks anywhere. Except me. And I was not foolish enough to wander out alone at night. I would be a helpless target to those monsters masquerading as people my own age. They look like me from a distance, but up close, their eyes are flat and malicious, their minds driven by violent games and meaningless images played across wall screens.

My uncle knew our new neighbor Guy Montag was a fireman. He warned me and my parents to be careful what we said, especially at night; our loud voices and laughter carry far in the still darkness when the only sound is the hum of the Seashells as people drift off into their own little worlds even more than they usually do.

But I was awake, and alive. Even with the window open, there was not a sound to distract me from my breathing; in, out, in, out-

I remembered the first time my uncle took me out of the city, to the tracks.

"Remember the tracks," he told me. "Don't forget the path. See it in your mind, Clarisse, and ingrain them in your memory." And I like to think I did, that day, absorbing the details of the surreal world around me, far more real to me than any building or television screen, sucking them into my very being until we seemed one. When I close my eyes, I can still see the place along the tacks before me. Perhaps I left a part of me there that day, in the dirt and grass, silently observing the whispering leaves and cracking branches as light pours across the ground.

That was only the first time we went, when I was still very little and too talkative to keep the real secrets. But it was only a little while afterwards that I spotted the flickering light among the trees. The fire, where- as I soon learned- the Rememberers gathered.

Though memories do not stand out clearly in my mind, I can still recall that moment vividly, that sight of elusive, dancing flame of hope, the fleeting gleam that would open a whole new world up to me. And after that, I can hear a series of low voices speaking over the crackling wood as it burned in the forest, speaking history and ancient myths that seemed to cross an endless gap of space and time to me.

I was little, then. I did not know what I listened to there was wrong in society's eyes. Words and works that once filled books, now recited again and again by the Book People, passed on and on in murmurs and memories.

That night at the window, I could hear one of the men telling me about Plato's philosophies, my uncle laughing, the friendly breezes that rushed through the woods-

Perhaps that was why the television never had any hold on me; I had seen the firelight, and the whispers that meant something in this world.

We did nothing illegal; we broke no laws, resisted no government. We only waited, waited for more to come. For more to listen.

The footsteps shocked me into wakefulness again. It was disconcerting and comforting, all at once, as they thumped against the wet pavement and echoed through the misty air. Everything sounds different in the damp. Any sort of sound breaks the monotony and seems that much lighter when compared to its surroundings.

The hint of life in this void made me sit straighter, but how high were the chances that this could did not come from yet another mockery of life, sucked dry of emotion and thought? I should not snap to attention and twist to find the source as though someone had called my name, but I could not help it. It might just have well sung "Clarisse" in my ear, so strong was the summons.

My hand tightened its grip on the windowsill; I stood as the footsteps- neither purposeful nor leisurely- grew louder, their steady beat matching my heart's pulse. The thud of boot against pavement shattered the desolate stillness in a way that awakened every nerve, a way that demanded attention like the click of a sergeant's heels.

My eyes were riveted to the corner where the walker would appear by some unfathomable force. I could almost see the figure in my mind, watch the strides that brought the spark of life near.

It was yet another poor soul, out in the dark… but a soul all the same, to be out in the fresh air. Someone not bound by the technology that pinned both mind and heart down in darkness.

And my own heart throbbed for that precious meeting, the simple acknowledgement between two people when they looked into each other's eyes, intimate no matter how minute the moment.

It was dark, but the man who turned the corner walked on without a glance in either direction.

My heart sank.

He drew closer, and I recognized him. Not him, exactly. But I knew his kind.

Firemen. Book-burners. A shiver ran through me as he approached with his gaze fixed on the ground. Soot-covered and muscular, a black panther in the night.

He had to be my new neighbor, Guy Montag. Someone who might put me down on a To Watch list or take me away from my family. Someone who would scorn everything I said and thought. Someone who spent his waking hours tearing apart the seams that held independence and thought aloft.

But now that I could see him, he did not walk with arrogant confidence, like I would expect from one of them; he trudged on with a hunched back, a limp- And he had something, tucked underneath his arm….

Fascinated in spite of myself, I leaned forward intently, eyes narrowing as I took in his haggard face. He looked tired. Most of them just look angry, or stupid. Even his face was blackened by soot, his pupils eerily white against the filth-

Then he looked up, right up at me, puzzlement written across his face. With a gasp, I threw myself back from the window, heart pounding as I berated myself. No one stared out windows! Was I already marking us out as targets to a dangerous neighbor? Did he now know that something was "not quite right" about us? I sat down hard and pictured his confused face surveying the empty windows around him. It was a trick of the light, he would probably decide at last. Ghostly images, formed by a billowing curtain in the window. My fingers rubbed absently at a pool of water I had not wiped up off the floor.

I had seen his face, the recognition in his eyes-

He had looked at me. I frowned. They never look.

Curiosity is a double-edged sword, my uncle likes to say. I found myself easing back up onto my knees, fingertips brushing the cotton curtains as I rested my hand on the windowsill again. Unable to resist, I was drawn forwards by my deadly inquisitive nature. It will be the death of me, Mother worries. I suppose she is right….

I had counted slowly under my breath, hand on top of hand. Then I pulled my body up so I could haze out again.

He was not looking in my direction anymore, a faint scowl on his face. One of puzzlement, not annoyance or suspicion. He walked slower now, studying everything in his path. Then he turned the corner again and disappeared.

And as I face the blinding headlights rushing towards me, I remember him, and what I said to him. And what he said to me.

He was a fireman. A book-burner. He devoted his life to destroying all my mind holds dear.

But he was the one I waited for on that corner one night. One of the ones we wait for. One who can listen to us.

And if he can change….

If he can listen….

Who is to say we cannot save this world?

Clarisse