Author's Note: Hello everyone! For those of you who follow me, you'll know that I typically don't write too many things that are Disney related, but I wanted to give it a shot at tackling what I call the "Disney Twisted" attempt. One of my favorite sequels is admittedly the sequel to Disney's version of Victor Hugo's classic tale, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and while the movie is severely flawed in many ways, I do like it a great deal, if only for the fact that Quasi got a love interest. I'm not sure how many versions there are out there floating around in the Internet of a main character getting quite literally pulled or swept away into the story to live it out for themselves, but I thought it would be a fun idea to try it with a "Disney" version of Notre Dame.
For the characters, I absolutely adored Tom Hulce's portrayal of Quasi and think that he has the perfect voice for our beloved bell ringer of Notre Dame, so I'm envisioning him but with the more physical attributes of Michael Arden, who played Quasimodo in the live version at the La Jolla playhouse.
I am going to do my best to make it somewhat of an original idea and bring a certain level of respect and compassion to this kind of story telling, as I feel like at times it can be hard to do, when a modern world character gets thrust into a fantasy realm and they have no idea how to get out, and while the model in my story is for all intents and purposes the same girl that acted as my vision for Madellaine in my other story, "What Makes a Monster," Renee Barreau, while she may look like Madellaine and have the same surname as her, they are not* the same and have two completely different personalities. Though I will confess, I do love Jennifer Love Hewitt's voice acting as Madellaine and have decided that, for the time being, she is the voice I hear whenever I write for Renee, just as whenever I write for Quasi, I only hear Tom Hulce.
This project will be written sporadically. I'll try to post at least a chapter every two weeks. It already has a rough outline, and I write chapter-by-chapter, so if you're following this story, I appreciate patience. Quality over quantity, in the end, right?
Anyways, that's enough chatter on my end. I hope that you will enjoy as we delve into the story of Renee Barreau and how she came to cross paths with the lonely bell ringer of Notre Dame, and as she ventures on a discovery of not only who she is, but who she is not.
Enjoy! :)
As usual, Anya Barreau was running late. It took her thirty minutes to drive through downtown Chicago, through the metropolitan parts of the city, and that was only if she speeded and didn't get another ticket. Muttering a few choice words under her breath, she clamped another bobby pin in her mouth as she twisted her thick dark locks into an elegant knot, anchoring it at the base of her head with what had to feel like at least fifty pins. Glancing at the clock on her phone, she groaned and rolled her eyes. She had exactly twenty minutes to feed herself and her daughter and make her way across town towards the district courthouse. At forty, she was perhaps Judge Hawthorne's youngest administrative assistant within the last five years, a fact she prided herself on. Sparing her reflection, a quick glance, she gave a curt nod of approval. Dressed in a white camisole, a pair of black pants, a short-sleeve heather gray cardigan and a pair of teal and black Tieks flats, Anya knew she'd never looked better. Grabbing her black Rosetti hobo bag, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drew her into the kitchen.
She didn't usually visit her daughter in her on-campus apartment, but following the news of a particularly nasty breakup with law student John Newall, Anya decided that a trip to see her little girl was necessary, and she had, for the better part of the last two days, stopped by and micromanaged every aspect of Renee's life, from making sure she got out of bed, dressed, made it to her classes on time, and turned in every single homework assignment. "If I don't get to give up, then neither do you," she had said.
"Oh, no," she groaned, slinging her purse off her shoulder, car keys in one hand, travel Tervis mug which she had intended to fill to the brim with coffee in the other. Her daughter, Renee Barreau, sat alone at the kitchen a table, her eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, a cup of coffee clutched in her hands, no doubt the only thing she had eaten this morning. Meanwhile, her usual cup of herbal tea sat at the opposite end of the table, already poured and piping hot for her mother. She scoffed, quirking a delicately arched brow at her daughter. It was clear to Anya that she had, as usual, been up all night again, probably pulling an all-nighter, though if she had to hazard a guess, Renee stayed up reading past her usual self-appointed bedtime to an ungodly hour. "Tell me you haven't been up all night." Anya's first words to Renee as she plunked her car keys back into her bag, setting her bag on the table. "Well? Am I talking to myself or you gonna answer me?"
Her daughter barely glanced up from her history book. "I haven't been up all night," she parroted weakly.
Anya frowned. "Seriously?" she challenged, reaching for her own mug of tea, raising the cup to her lips and studying her daughter's face over the rim of the mug as she drank, searching Renee's face for any hint, any sign that she might be lying. She let out a sigh, unable to detect any trace of malicious intent in her daughter's oval face. Renee blearily glanced up from his textbook, lifting her chin and jutting it out, slightly defiant.
So much like her she was, when Anya had been Renee's age, she was. Her blue eyes met her mother's and her face blanched only slightly, but she did not back down from her questioning gaze. "You asked me for an answer," she retorted hotly. "You didn't ask me for the truth."
"You shouldn't be drinking coffee. You're way too young!"
Renee glared at her mother. "And you shouldn't be drinking when you think Dad isn't looking," she weakly joked, finally meeting her mother's gaze, as though daring her to challenge their separate vices. Truth be told, Anya didn't have time for any other vices. She knew as she looked at her only child that she, along with the rest of the world, would only be making the same inference as everyone else would whenever they met Renee Elizabeth Barreau: a good-looking kid, straight-A student who knew better than most the consequences of falling off the path of the straight and narrow.
A young woman who was destined for great things in this life. A young woman who was exactly what Anya had hoped their daughter would grow to become. "Tell me I'm wrong, Mom. I'd love to be wrong."
"I—I don't…." Anya mumbled sheepishly, feeling the heat creep onto her cheeks, turning them a bright rosy pink as she got caught.
Renee let out a heavy sigh and slammed her textbook closed, shoving it into her pink nylon backpack and zipping it closed, kicking it aside. "Mom, even when you throw away the bottles, I can still find them, and I can smell it," she explained, with all the heaviness of a fully grown adult who had grown tired, wary of the world and its problems, especially her parents' problems that she heard, day in and day out.
Anya huffed in frustration, brushing back a lock of dark chocolate hair that had fallen loose from her bun, making a mental note to redo it when she got in the car. She craned her neck to take a better look at his history textbook. "What's on the docket for today?" she asked, taking another sip of tea and glancing at the clock. Seventeen minutes now. She had to move, or she'd be late again.
"History test during second period, sadly," grumbled Renee darkly. "President Lincoln's assassination by John Wilkes Booth, and—what's the matter, Mom?" she asked, noticing her mother's wide, hazel eyes as they glazed over slightly.
"Oh, nothing. Just a little flashback of why I got a C in history. Have you had breakfast?" she asked, attempting to steer the conversation in a slightly more pleasant direction. "Renee?"
"Coffee," she answered simply, clutching her mug tightly in her hands, suddenly growing nervous and averting her mother's piercing X-Ray gaze.
"Coffee doesn't count," Anya retorted, wearily rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger. It wasn't even nine yet and she was already getting a splitting headache, not wanting to deal with it. Glancing back up towards the clock, she let out a sigh.
Work was going to have to wait a few more minutes.
"It does when you're in a rush," Renee challenged angrily. Anya stifled a groan as she chanced another glance at the clock. She weighed the pros and cons of being another five or so minutes late or earning another tally mark in the column of poor parenting. She sighed, sauntering over towards the fridge and began pulling out the essentials for a hearty-enough breakfast for a young college kid who needed nourishment: eggs, milk, bacon. The usual. Shouldn't a twenty-year-old be able to take care of herself in the mornings? Have I really failed her that much as a mother? Anya thought, anguished, as she ripped open the brand-new package of bacon with perhaps more force than was necessary, obsessively compulsively laying the strips of bacon on the frying pan. "Relax," Anya jokingly added, noting her daughter's dawning look of horror as she came to stand beside her mother at the stove.
"Should I call the fire department this time and have them on standby?" Renee snorted, gingerly taking the skillet out of her mother's hands and re-laying the strips of bacon so they lay even on the skillet.
Her daughter glanced furtively back towards her shoulder, towards the barely recognizable microwave, charred and burn beyond repair. It still needed replacing, but they hoped to do that one next.
"Nope, not this time," Anya joked, cracking open an egg and beginning to scramble it. "I think I can do this without setting our house on fire. Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she snapped, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout as Renee shoved aside her mother with her elbow, effectively relieving her of kitchen duty.
"Not having our house burn down," Renee joked weakly, turning off the stove as she laid the strips of bacon to drain on a paper towel.
Anya watched in silence as she used the wooden spoon to scoop out the scrambled eggs and lay a few of the bacon strips on two plates, one for her, one for Anya, and taking the time to pour them each a glass of milk.
On a normal day, Anya would have taken the time to join her daughter for breakfast, but she was already late, and another glance at the clock only confirmed that suspicion. Anya let out a startled yelp as she dared to dig into her purse for her cell phone. "Damn," she swore. "Sorry," she added, noting Renee's dark glower she sent her way. "I'm running late," she moaned, instinctively reaching for her Tervis mug, which she poured a copious amount of herbal chamomile tea into for the road. She glanced towards Renee's plate of mostly untouched food. "Promise me you'll finish that?" she asked, meeting her gaze.
Renee did not back down, her blue eyes flashing, her gaze unabashed and unwavering. "I promise," she answered steadily.
"Then I'm headed out," she said warmly, leaning over to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "Have a good day, Renee." Satisfied that she had played the role of mother to the best of her abilities given her immense time constraints, she quit the kitchen. By the time she backed her car out of the student apartment complex's little driveway, her head was already focused on the number of arraignments that would be piled waiting on her desk for her to give Judge Hawthorne, making a mental note to swing by Dunkin' Donuts to pick up his usual latte and a box of his favorite: the glazed munchkins Dunkie's was famous for, his standard Friday treat, same as every Friday, really. Anya Barreau was so caught up in a world far away from home, where at that very moment, her daughter stood up and scraped her breakfast plate into the trash can without ever taking a single bite.
It was, as her mother had predicted, towards the end of her classes, and Renee Barreau was starving, though she would not admit it to Anya. One of Renee's favorite professors had once told her that, "Writing a story was dreaming upon a page, and you dream in movie-quality like sleep almost every night. So, believe me, Miss Barreau, when I tell you that you have it within you to join the ranks of the greatest writers of all time. Dream a dream. Let your subconsciousness come out to play, commit the tale to paper. Someone, somewhere, will read it, and don't ever give up on yourself." Wise words for twenty-three-year-old Renee Barreau to live by.
Though, admittedly, in the moment, she was struggling. Hard.
The idea for her latest story had come to her in the middle of a dream a night or two ago, from which she had hastily woken herself and scrambled to grab a pen and notebook paper to write down the details before she forgot.
And now…she was having trouble committing this exact tale to paper.
The assignment was quite simple. For her Advanced Creative Writing class, the senior in college was to turn in a fifty-page short story or a hundred-page novella submission for grading and critiquing. And, here was the bonus. If it was good enough, there was a chance her professor, Dr. Elizabeth Graham, might be able to help her get it published in the real world. But it wasn't going to be good for publishing if she didn't write the damn thing first, and she'd been staring at a blank Microsoft Word document, the cursor of her mouse just steadily blinking at her, for the better part of an hour. Renee had tried cup after cup of black coffee, as she liked it.
But nothing helped. She blearily lifted her head, which had been previously buried in her hands in exasperation and exhaustion, and was jolted out of her dark haze of her thought process as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that hung just across from her oak writing desk.
Renee Barreau could not see the laughter in her eyes or her trademark smile twitching at her lips. Instead, she appeared, for the most at least, skeletal and quite deranged. Her socks lay as inky pools, and her cheekbones held a gaunt, almost sunken in look that made her look deranged, haunted.
The young blonde college student looked like she was about to be sick.
Or already dead, her conscience offered, rather unhelpfully at this point.
"My God," she moaned, shuddering as a tremor went down her spine. Deciding that perhaps some fresh air was in order, she didn't hesitate to reach down by her feet, making a mad grab for her light pink Angelkiss purse, slipping on her sandals and smoothing the skirts of her dress as she fled her dorm room, where she lived alone. The added benefits of being wealthy.
Or rather, her parents were wealthy and had wanted her to have the ultimate college experience, which for Renee Barreau, meant being left alone. Once she was outside, purse slung over her shoulder, Renee felt the tension almost immediately leave her shoulders as she drew in a breath of air.
She was a girl on walk, starting to get a feel for who she really was at her core. These days of more calmness, now that she had mastered the art of having a clear brain, the serenity of feeling her own intelligence rather than tiring herself with unresolved thoughts, she could see far more clearly, yet rather through her senses than her eyes, a sort of thinking without words. And what came to her were new thoughts, a sort of poetry she never realized she was capable of. The avenue was breathing, living, through the trees and the people, as if they were in a strange conversation of sorts, one of the emotions. It was as if the colors and the sounds, the bustle and the quiet space, were a million weaved moments both transient and real, and it was.
Once outside one of the campus's main hotspots, a quaint little café and coffee shop near 10th and Main Street, she furrowed her brow into a slight frown as she reached into her purse as the sound of her phone chirping reached her eardrums. Scowling, Renee was in the midst of grumbling to herself as she rummaged through her bag, having to search through all the multi zippered pockets and hidden little compartments until she found it.
Hitting the 'PLAY' button on her voicemail, she held the phone to her ear and frowned, and upon hearing it, felt her lips curve downward into a sneer. "Oh, I don't think so, John," she growled angrily, hitting the delete button. Her boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend, whom she caught with another girl. He had, ever since their disastrous breakup when had resulted in quite a shouting match and almost a wine bottle opener driven through his hand, been trying (and failing!) to win back her affections. But it wouldn't work.
"You and I, we're through, Newall," she growled through clenched teeth. No sooner had the words left her lips than did Renee catch sight yet again of her reflection, this time in the business's window, and she froze.
For a moment, she was quite surprised at how cross she looked. The young woman had thrown out her hip, as she tended to do whenever she was cross or annoyed with something that displeased her, jutting it to the side as she plunked her cell phone back into her purse and zipped it shut.
Dressed in a simple pink mauve embroidered wrap maxi dress with flouncy short sleeves, floral embroidery detailing, a tie at the dress's waistline, and a femme flowy high-low bottom hem, topped off with her pink Angelkiss purse and a pair of light brown sandals that showed off her love for hot pink toenail polish, she was all too aware of what she looked like in the moment.
Her blue eyes, normally quite expressive, the color of a clear blue sky through a broken prison wall, the color of a perfect raindrop on a blue aster, the color of a river hurrying to join the ocean, were currently narrowed to slits, the emotions in Renee Barreau's eyes fathoms deep, and right now, they were angry. Angry at John's pleading message, and even angrier at the rejection. The dress showed off her slender petite figure. Annoyed, she hopped up onto the stone wall near the restaurant's flowerbed and folded one leg over the other, momentarily forgetting about her dress's leg slit that went almost all the way up.
With her blonde hair cut incredibly short in a stylish pixie cut that framed her oblong face, high cheekbones, and good jawline and brought attention to her brilliant blue eyes, she was more than aware that she was attracting a few interested glances from young men as they passed her. However, once they saw her fuming glacier cold glower, they quickly lost interest and pretended to be busy in the goings on surrounding them. She had come here for a little rest and recreation, and she was going to be damned if she wasn't leaving this café until she had a hot cup of coffee in hand and a chocolate frosted donut in the other.
Maybe it would be just the pick-me-up that she needed to power through this sudden onset of writer's block. "It didn't used to be this way," she grumbled, dipping into her wallet to pay for her order when it came her turn to order. Once she got her food, she carried her steaming cup of coffee and her donut on a napkin to a table. As she mulled over what to do about her writer's block, Renee did not realize she had allowed her coffee to become so cold until it was already so. The morning was as old as the coffee that stood in front of her. She tapped its murky brown surface to break the thickening skin and watched the new gap grow. The frigid dark drink dripped from her finger, the ripples spreading towards the rim in ever larger circles.
Oh, Renee knew she was spoiled, so used to the finest beans, always freshly brewed and served with half-and-half, like they did it back home. The young woman still craved a subtle undertone of hazelnut and her cup to be a festive color with cardboard around it, since Halloween was right around the corner in a few more weeks. But no. Instead, it was this instant muck, served warm in polystyrene—depression served without a smile. "It suits this place, though."
She was grumbling to herself, still stuck in a foul mood and unsure of how to get out. Before she knew it, Renee wasn't even aware she had taken her frigid drink, gathered her purse over her shoulder and stomped, yes, quite literally, stomped her way towards the library, to the back room where the computers were so she could work encumbered with little distractions.
Glancing around at the otherwise empty room, Renee realized that her cold coffee matched the beige walls and melamine desks and was as unwelcoming as the guarded strip lights and the worn, frayed blue carpet.
The only thing alive in here was the ticking clock. "I think the rest of us died some time ago," Renee whispered, rolling her eyes and scoffing as she turned in her swivel chair, powered up the computer, and pulled up Microsoft Word. Taking a moment to stretch and crack her knuckles, she stared at the blank page, hoping that a burst of creativity would come to her.
When it did not, she began to drum her pink tipped manicured fingers along the edge of the desk, not seemingly caring about the fact that this little gesture, a bit of a nervous tic of hers, caused the others stationed at the computers around her to look about in irritation for the source of the noise.
"Shh!" someone whisper-hissed through gritted teeth. "Keep it down!"
"You shush!" snapped Renee, not in the mood for games tonight, of which was not lost on the librarian, for the head librarian as well as the security guard both shot Renee Barreau a withering look, eyes narrowed.
Her blue eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, Renee's head whiplashed sharply to the left and had been about to tell the shusher off with a warning of what would follow if they didn't mind their own business, when suddenly it hit her. Where was she? In a library! What did they have?
Books! She needed to finish this assignment, and what better way to do that than by gaining inspiration from reading. It had been a few days since she finished her latest book, The Beach House by James Patterson, and she was itching for something new, something Renee had not yet read before.
Bolting from her swivel chair and computer station, forgoing the idea of getting any writing done for the time being, she grabbed her purse and began to make her way towards the Young Adult section of her campus's library.
Reading was like an escape from reality for her. When she picked up a book and started reading, Renee often times got so sucked into it that she forgot any of her own surroundings. Her imagination took over and she was free to fantasize about whatever it was she wanted without worrying whether other people in her life (like John!) would judge her and think her insane for it. For Renee, it was like she could create a little world in her mind and imagine how the characters would look like, and how they acted, what they sounded like. The young woman thought it was crazy how much something as casual as reading could leave such an impact on her and her future career.
Renee absentmindedly wandered the aisles of the young adult section, searching, her fingertips grazing the edges of the various books spines as she walked. It was on the middle shelf, about her eye level, which wasn't saying much considering she was maybe five foot three on a good day, and that was IF she didn't reach up on her tiptoes, that gave her pause and she grew still.
The book was new and about the average size for a paperback book, 6 by 9, the leather felt soft and delicate as she ran her fingers over the blue bindings. Intrigued, Renee gingerly removed the book from its place on the bookshelf and fingered the gold lettering carefully, driven by the book's title.
"Into the Sunlight: A Disney Twisted Tale," by Chelsea Anne Kowalski," she whispered, curious. It was another moment or two before the young blonde opened the cover, the paper rustling as she thumbed through the book to briefly skim the first two chapters, and she liked what she saw.
Words appeared and disappeared as her blue eyes flitted across the pages, quickly picking out anything of importance from the jumble of sentences that littered this new 'Twisted' world she found herself quickly immersing in.
She had barely even begun to read the first page, and already, the book was developing a vice-like grip on Renee's mind, a trait which she found most curious, considering most books didn't have the ability to do that to her. Already, it was challenging the mundane facts of her meager existence, bringing Renee into a new turbulent realm where even her sense of self was up for grabs. Deciding that she was already hooked, Renee quickly slammed the book down on the check out desk of the library, where the head librarian, a kind enough old man by the name of Victor stood, waiting.
Letting out a soft chuckle, the old man picked up his favorite customer's latest obsession and regarded the gold letting on the book's cover a moment.
"You again. I'm beginning to think you might be the only one on campus who actually reads the stories we have in here, and not just for the Cliff Notes. I was wondering when you would get around to this book, ma'am. You sure you want this one, Miss Barreau? It's not a safe read, you know," he added, something akin to amusement twinkling in his green eyes.
The old man had a fringe of grey-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He had a wizened face and a back slightly hunched. With each movement there was the creak of old bones. He had the resigned look of one who knows that at his age life has stopped giving and only takes away.
Were this perhaps another time and place, like in one of the fantasy books she loved so much, Renee might have once described Old Man Vic as something of a wizard. The man had a keen mind and an even sharper tongue. Part of the reason aside from the peace and tranquility the campus's library had to offer, why Renee Barreau frequented the library every week, was to visit Victor and keep the head librarian company during lonely nights.
When the wizened old man would describe his life, Renee would be instantly transported to another place and time. His voice was slow, and he stumbled on his words at times. Sometimes he was overtaken by emotions that had been buried for decades and he would have to pause.
When he gesticulated it was with the creak of age in his bones. At times he would seem excited to tell Renee a tale. Other times he seemed like he was honoring a solemn duty to remember the fallen, his face careworn, tired.
Renee stared at the librarian, as he, in turn, stared at the young woman from across his desk, that smug, coy little grin on his face, as if there was something, that he knew about this book in particular that Renee Barreau did not. His voice, when he spoke, had a husky drawl to it and every step he took was in slow motion compared to anyone else Renee Barreau knew.
His idea of hurrying was to bend his ancient head downward a little as he sauntered the pace of his footsteps not changing one iota. That's just the way the man was, right down from his crisp, slightly old-fashioned suit, to his short, close-cropped thick, and slightly wavy tuft of salt and pepper hair.
Something Victor had said gave Renee pause. "What do you mean it's not 'safe?' Is this your idea of a prank, Vic? Because if it is, it's not funny…"
But the head librarian shook his head, almost seeming disappointed in the young woman that she had not quite yet figured out what it was he meant. "Your books, the ones you read, they are safe. By reading them, you get to become the characters and create that movie in your mind, right?"
"But that's what I like about them!" Renee protested vehemently and made a move to grab the book off the desk and slide it into her purse, but the old man swatted her hand away and clucked his tongue in mock shame.
"I wasn't finished," he snapped, though his green eyes twinkled. He leaned forward, both of his hands clutching onto the front of the strange book for support, and Renee swallowed down a hard lump forming in her throat. Something about Vic's eyes and the way he was looking at her felt…
Off. Yes, that was it. Off. Not right. Touched in the head. Crazy, even.
"Listen," he breathed, unable to keep the note of excitement from seeping into his voice. "Have you ever been Captain Nemo if you've ever read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea? Or Captain Ahab hunting down Moby? So…so terrified beyond belief, scared for the characters, for yourself, that you were afraid that you couldn't escape it? That you wouldn't leave it alive?"
"B—but it's only a story, Vic," stammered Renee, faltering and taking a step or two backwards away from the desk. It was clear by the dark bags underneath the old man's eyes that he wasn't sleeping very much these days.
The young college student wasn't sure where this sudden change of attitude in the librarian's voice had come from. She wasn't sure she liked it.
The head librarian chuckled, his gaze drifting downwards towards the book, which still lay closed, though something about it was calling to her.
Perhaps it was the gentle grace and elegance of the cover, as though whoever had designed it had gone through painstaking detail to ensure it was crafted like a work of art, a masterpiece of a fairy tale, like something out of a Disney movie or a medieval book. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Miss Barreau," he said, and there was a note of something in his voice as well as in the man's eyes that Renee Elizabeth Barreau wasn't quite sure she could place, and in this moment, given his sudden attitude adjustment, she wasn't sure she wanted to. "Forget about it, girlie. This book is not for you, dear."
But Renee could not accept that as an answer as she felt her own eyes drift downward to glance at the book that Old Man Victor held in his grasp.
Something about the book was calling to her, sucking her in like a siren would draw in a wary sailor. She opened her mouth to protest as she dug in her bag for her wallet to procure her library card and demand he give it to her, when the hollering of what sounded like two students in a brawl over who got to use one of the computers next drew his attentions elsewhere.
"Excuse me," he murmured, grumbling to himself, his voice losing all semblance of warmth that had previously been there. "Be right back, miss."
Renee watched and waited until he rounded the corner. She bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, and before her mind could so much as fathom what she was doing, her arm instinctively reached out and seized the book.
Careful to tuck it underneath her arm, she quickly ducked out the library's front door without someone so much as noticing or saying hello.
By the time Victor returned to the front desk, in its place where the book had once been was a hastily scrawled note as well as a five-dollar bill.
Don't worry Vic! I'll return your book and we can catch up on this over coffee. I need it to finish an assignment and hopefully give me inspiration.
R.B.
The head librarian stared after the space where only moments ago the young woman had stood and let out a light little chuckle that went unnoticed. "That book is going to twist and warp your reality, kid."
And yet, something in the young Barreau woman's spirit told the much older man that Renee Barreau was one of few who were up for the challenge. The old quacks of this world, of which he was not, it might be noted, that daydreaming as the young blonde woman was prone to do, was 'maladaptive,' and that it needed to cease if people like the girl he'd just dealt with were going to become a functioning member of society once they graduated. Victor retorted to those few nonbelievers that society itself was maladaptive and that if it just joined him and Renee Barreau in daydreaming, even for just a moment to see what it was like, then earth might stand a chance. People like that young blonde woman that had just 'borrowed' his book were humanity's last hope. Though Vic would never admit this to anyone, he had wanted her to take the book, and was secretly hoping she would find it one of these days during her next adventure trip to see him.
He let out another laugh, this one shorter and more of a bark as he settled back into his swivel chair behind the desk. "What if this reality that we perceive is not what it seems? I mean, what if it's not real? We're just imagining it, and because we don't know of any other realities, we stopped here and considered this the one and only that we could experience. But what if we suddenly decided to change it all at once? What if we made a new choice? What if we imagined something different? Something... less limited perhaps. Isn't it funny how we always want to get rid of limitations? It must be our soul, which is separate from the mind. It always rebels against limitations. That is why we want to change the reality. Because it is too limited. I can give a few examples of attempts in here: novels, pictures, comic books, movies, video games, and so on. All of those are nothing but humanity's attempts to escape reality! And they're all good ones. In order to escape your current reality, you must create a new one. And you can create a new one just like you created this one - by imagining it! Read that book, kid." Old Man Victor felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips as he realized that tonight, or however long it would take the woman to read the book she had effectively stolen, that her life was about to irrevocably change.
Whether or not that was for the better, only time would tell.