~a/n: I've been writing a lot of very slightly unusual fics of late, and I
see no need to break suit now. Instead, I feel the need to continue this
atrocious atrocity. Remember, I don't do this for me, I do it for you
because I care. Good lord how I care.
T h u n d e r G o d s
"This it?" the man asked. He was tall and skinny, his black hair shading dark eyes and a face aged beyond his years.
"Yes," I said, and handed him my library card.
He gave me a strained, tired smile. I'd seem this man at the library since I was six, when I used to look at picture books with my mother. His name was Klaus, a name I had always loved to say.
"You have an overdue fine on that Agatha Christie book you borrowed last week."
I relinquished 50 cents to him and made to pick up my books as thunder ripped through the sky. The window behind him flashed periodically with the lightening, backlighting this sad young man in a way most alarming.
He sat back on the little stool and picked up a small book. I was about to leave when suddenly the power cut out.
"Oh drat," he said mildly, and I heard the soft sound of his book being laid against the desk. With a click a flashlight came on behind her and she turned, shading her eyes.
"It's getting dark-perhaps you shouldn't walk home alone." He handed me an old telephone with a smile. "Try calling."
I did try, three times, all three with no success. I handed the telephone down to where he sat wedged in the corner reading his book with one of two library flashlights. I sat next to him behind the counter and opened my own book.
For the first time, I noticed things about him, things that ten years of library patronage hadn't told me. He was dressed shabbily, and I got the feeling he had given up trying to make a good impression on anyone. There was he was reading a book of poetry by a woman called Isadora Quagmire with a pained look on his face.
"What's wrong?" I asked. He seemed to be enjoying the book about as much as a pulled tooth.
"I don't remember you at all like this, Isadora," he said.
"You knew her?"
"Yes, we met at a boarding school I attended once. But I remember her couplets on a much more...pleasant note. Before they reminded me of some pleasant, rhyming children's books, but now they're more like something Plath would write."
Having done a term paper on Sylvia Plath, I knew what a transition that was. I also remember, with a sick feeling, that Plath had committed suicide at the age of thirty.
"Of course, Plath killed herself," the librarian noted, almost like he was reading my thoughts, "which worries me quite a bit about Isadora. Good Lord, but I was fond of her."
I found it hard to imagine Klaus as being fond of anything you couldn't stick a bookmark in, but nodded. "Have you tried contacting her?"
He shook his head. "I've thought about it, but she's probably settled down with a husband and children. We knew each other at a sort of stressful time, and after reading this I'm afraid of dredging up any of the horrible memories. But maybe someday I will. Maybe someday." His eyes took on a distant, far-off look as the lightening flashed overhead. In that moment I didn't feel I was looking at him, but looking through him. To me he felt like a ghost, the reminder of someone who was already dead. It was very alarming to sit next to him as he smiled thinly at me.
"Of course, you've got better things to do than listen to a crazy librarians ranting on about how they've screwed up there lives. All you've probably learned from this is to never come to this library again." He laughed, but there wasn't much joy in it.
Thunder clapped, and his eyes reflected the lightening. I looked back down at my book, but found myself unable to get beyond the first sentence of "The Mousetrap".
"You might want to try home again," he said after reading a bit more. "And if not then I can give you a ride home."
I called once more, and my mother told me she was on the way to pick me up.
"Goodbye," he said, fixing his exhausted smile on me once more.
"Goodbye," I murmured, unable to look at his face. I forced myself to meet his eyes, and as I heard my mother's car horn outside the library I knew I would never see him alive again.
The next day the newspaper blamed the weather for his death, but I knew he had not driven his car off the bridge on accident. I was the only one but the local priest to show at his funeral, and after they finished piling the fresh earth on a premature grave I knelt and made a promise.
Then, I went home and wrote a letter to Isadora Quagmire.
T h u n d e r G o d s
"This it?" the man asked. He was tall and skinny, his black hair shading dark eyes and a face aged beyond his years.
"Yes," I said, and handed him my library card.
He gave me a strained, tired smile. I'd seem this man at the library since I was six, when I used to look at picture books with my mother. His name was Klaus, a name I had always loved to say.
"You have an overdue fine on that Agatha Christie book you borrowed last week."
I relinquished 50 cents to him and made to pick up my books as thunder ripped through the sky. The window behind him flashed periodically with the lightening, backlighting this sad young man in a way most alarming.
He sat back on the little stool and picked up a small book. I was about to leave when suddenly the power cut out.
"Oh drat," he said mildly, and I heard the soft sound of his book being laid against the desk. With a click a flashlight came on behind her and she turned, shading her eyes.
"It's getting dark-perhaps you shouldn't walk home alone." He handed me an old telephone with a smile. "Try calling."
I did try, three times, all three with no success. I handed the telephone down to where he sat wedged in the corner reading his book with one of two library flashlights. I sat next to him behind the counter and opened my own book.
For the first time, I noticed things about him, things that ten years of library patronage hadn't told me. He was dressed shabbily, and I got the feeling he had given up trying to make a good impression on anyone. There was he was reading a book of poetry by a woman called Isadora Quagmire with a pained look on his face.
"What's wrong?" I asked. He seemed to be enjoying the book about as much as a pulled tooth.
"I don't remember you at all like this, Isadora," he said.
"You knew her?"
"Yes, we met at a boarding school I attended once. But I remember her couplets on a much more...pleasant note. Before they reminded me of some pleasant, rhyming children's books, but now they're more like something Plath would write."
Having done a term paper on Sylvia Plath, I knew what a transition that was. I also remember, with a sick feeling, that Plath had committed suicide at the age of thirty.
"Of course, Plath killed herself," the librarian noted, almost like he was reading my thoughts, "which worries me quite a bit about Isadora. Good Lord, but I was fond of her."
I found it hard to imagine Klaus as being fond of anything you couldn't stick a bookmark in, but nodded. "Have you tried contacting her?"
He shook his head. "I've thought about it, but she's probably settled down with a husband and children. We knew each other at a sort of stressful time, and after reading this I'm afraid of dredging up any of the horrible memories. But maybe someday I will. Maybe someday." His eyes took on a distant, far-off look as the lightening flashed overhead. In that moment I didn't feel I was looking at him, but looking through him. To me he felt like a ghost, the reminder of someone who was already dead. It was very alarming to sit next to him as he smiled thinly at me.
"Of course, you've got better things to do than listen to a crazy librarians ranting on about how they've screwed up there lives. All you've probably learned from this is to never come to this library again." He laughed, but there wasn't much joy in it.
Thunder clapped, and his eyes reflected the lightening. I looked back down at my book, but found myself unable to get beyond the first sentence of "The Mousetrap".
"You might want to try home again," he said after reading a bit more. "And if not then I can give you a ride home."
I called once more, and my mother told me she was on the way to pick me up.
"Goodbye," he said, fixing his exhausted smile on me once more.
"Goodbye," I murmured, unable to look at his face. I forced myself to meet his eyes, and as I heard my mother's car horn outside the library I knew I would never see him alive again.
The next day the newspaper blamed the weather for his death, but I knew he had not driven his car off the bridge on accident. I was the only one but the local priest to show at his funeral, and after they finished piling the fresh earth on a premature grave I knelt and made a promise.
Then, I went home and wrote a letter to Isadora Quagmire.