Chapter: The Beginning

People bore me. They really do. They walk through the world without a destination. When they look at you, they aren't aware that their eyes are closed. They speak but never stop to listen. Their movements, their thoughts – everything is just so damn predictable.

When they see me, they don't see me imprisoned in skin and hidden behind marble doors. They see my empty eyes coloured in by nature, and they start smiling. Their heartbeats increase and their faces turn an unnatural shade of red. But it is not me, who they really want to see, to meet. It is what I symbolise: success.

I've just published my fifth book in three years. Three of my recent books were made into successful films and I staged four plays. Literary genius, some call me but who are they to give me names? I am just another lonely man walking on the dust of others. My only skill is to observe. It is what I do. It is my nature.

I'm sitting in another bookstore. They brought me a table, a reading lamp, books, pens and a teacup so that I look superficially like an author. It's more than ridiculous but I let it pass. This is going to be my last reading-tour. No one knows this but me.

But then again it's true. I'll quit. I'll stop reading out loud to a bunch of boring faces. I'll stop writing for people who are too blind to see the actual words. I'll be just writing for myself, and after my death, the masses can destruct my words but I will thankfully be asleep.

"Mr Barrow, are you ready? I'd like to open the shop. Look at all the people who are here to see you. You must be so proud of yourself," Mr Edward, the bookstore-owner says while going to the front door. I can hear some people chattering. Every now and then I see some hair - sometimes blonde, sometimes brown - and sometimes even a camera through the tiny window.

"Yes, Mr Edward, I'm. And thank you for letting me do this here. You really have a beautiful bookstore." I smile and nod. This is what people expect. And this is what really sells: A young and polite author with a pretty face. Damn my face.

"Here you go," cries Mr Edward before the crowd rushed in. The noise is deafening. I don't know how many of them are screaming my name. Fools! Don't you see that I'm sitting here? That I have my hands on my lap and not on my ears? Fools! Fools! Fools! But I'm smiling. The storm is an unpleasant part of me.

I'm signing my name a thousand times this day. I'm listening to stories about people I don't know and I'm smiling with my thin paper-lips curled upwards. They can tear, I have to be careful. But I'm not. I'm smiling like a fool in a mirror.

I'm taking pictures with blue eyes and blond hairs, with round bodies and tiny hands. I'm saying "Ah, really?" and "Thank you very much" so often that I don't know what they actually mean, and yet I continue.

After three or four hours, Mr Edwards finally closes the bookstore. And I start breathing again. Thick and dark air is filling my lungs and sitting heavy on my chest. I'd like to ball my fist and bash my chest but it is no use. I tried it before. The feeling of narrowness always remains.

"God Lord, Mr Barrow. Are you alright? You're looking a bit pale?" I'm surprised that he has noticed.

"Yes, I am. No worries, Mr Edward. I just need some air. If it's alright with you, I'll go…" I point with my hand to the brown door.

"Oh, yes. Go and get some air, Mr Barrow. I'll clean this mess up. You already did enough. Oh Lord, all those people, huh?! They bought so many books." He smiles and his eyes are shining in a bronze light.

The moment I step out of the room, I'm finally able to breathe again. Cold air keeps me alive; at least for another moment.

I breathe for a second time and start walking with my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the ground. It's one of those autumn days that are grey and sludgy, that remained you of your aimlessness and of you mortality.

I wish I had some music with me, but I haven't. I'm a fool who has to bear his own thoughts. Thankfully I don't live far away, actually just two streets across the bookstore. But I have the habit of never going home straight away. People could follow and I don't want them near me. Not anymore.

At the final junction I have to wait because the traffic light is red. I lean upon its dirty metal and stare ahead. Cars became soon shapeless and all I can see are the dizzying movement of others and all I can hear are my repeating thoughts until now:

'Um, Mr Barrow it is?' I hear a young man asking but I don't react. I just keep starring ahead. If they are unsure, the usually don't dare bother twice.

'Um, I just wanted to say that I really adore your work and that I'm probably your biggest fan. I,' I hear him swallow, 'I just wanted to ask you if you could sign my copy of your book.' I close my eyes for three seconds:

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and turn my head around.

'Thank you for supporting me. I really appreciate your words, but I cannot sign your book right now because I'm on my way home.' I say automatically and force my lips to bend and pray that I look human. Sarah always said that with my fake smile I look like a handsome devil, but she didn't know that I just felt like a woeful boy. We were friends, and yet she didn't know much about me. Now she is gone. Just like everybody else. Maybe I'm a devil after all.

'Um, Mr Barrow, do you feel alright?' Surprisingly, he is still here.

'Do you begin all your sentences with 'um'?' I retort and break my rule of never asking questions. And he? He laughs. Youthful and free. And without being aware of my own actions, I look up and into his eyes. Different shades of blue are dancing like waves in the summer sea.

'No, I don't. I'm terribly sorry if you take me for a fool now,' he says.

'I don't,' I say. 'I just have to go now. I'm sorry.'

I mean it.

And the tightness in my chest is suddenly gone.