Fiction

Guess I've gotten to the library too early. It isn't open yet.

My only company out here on this cold and foggy morning is a pale young man in black with long, coppery hair.

I've seen him here before. Every day, like clockwork. I feel like I've seen him somewhere else before. Something seems different about him today. He seems...bitter, jaded...

But it's not as if I've ever observed him that closely.

He gives a weak cough and leans against one of the pillars outside. I look at him closer. He doesn't look very well.

I quickly look elsewhere as his eyes shift in my direction. He curls up in his jacket and gives an even weaker, almost inaudible cough.

I can't shake the feeling I've seen him before, but that's not what's on my mind. What's on my mind is the feeling that he's different. He seems so much colder than...

I want to say something, but the words get caught in my throat. Maybe it's for the best. He doesn't look very talkative, anyway.

No sooner than the doors open that a gust of wind brushes past me, and I realize he's gone.

Azur above, he was quick. How did I miss him? Well, no matter, I suppose.

Being a paramour of the written word, it's no surprise that I would be here on the weekend. I do have another reason, though. A reason I seek out with a secret little grin.

I think it was about five months ago when I found it. A copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream was poking out ever-so-slightly, with a piece of paper sticking out of it. And when the book suddenly poked out a little bit more as I passed by, I had the distinct feeling someone was trying to get my attention. I plucked the piece of paper out and on it, it said one simple thing.

"You interest me".

Just three words sparked my friendship with this phantom, who coyly hides away somewhere in one of these books. We give each other knowing winks and leave small clues of next our hiding places in passing. And we give chase after each other, and it all starts over again, and...

Dare I say I'm having fun chasing after this imaginary friend of mine? The whimsy of childhood passed me by, but that's not to say I don't have some concept of it. I won't admit this to a single soul, but whoever you are, my friend...you make me smile. You make me feel lighter, and the world becomes softer, and it all moves slower, and...

You make me happy. You make me genuinely happy. And for this bit of happiness, I wish I could return it to you in spades.

I slowly stalk the shelves. I'm looking for something..."wyrd". "Wyder things can happen", he told me. It's a strange misspelling, and I know he's making a reference to something, but what?

I pause, turn on my heel, and head towards the mythology section. And my secret grin grows.

It wasn't a misspelling at all. He often talks about repercussions, and what does "wyrd" mean?

I remember running across that word time and time again in old texts. I spy "The Passages of Wyrding" and quickly pluck it out. To my dismay, it's not there.

I don't recall ever feeling like this before. No, not the urge to smile...well, maybe...but this feeling. A thrill mixed with anticipation and lighthearted joy. I can honestly, most definitely say I've never felt this before. But I can honestly say I'm enjoying this.

As I wrack my mind for where the next hiding place could be, I pass by that young man, stationed at one of the computers. I've seen him here almost every day for months, always coming and going at the exact same time. He's been missing days here and there, recently. I wonder if anyone else notices...

Odd, how little we can know the people we find ourselves around so constantly. Some things are better left untold, but...I think about my phantom friend, whose message is hidden somewhere in one of these many books. What if they didn't find my message? What if someone else found it before they did? What if something happened? Something...

As paranoia grips my little heart, I suddenly remember a small detail of their life they would so proudly talk about whenever given the chance.

I make haste to the works of Shakespeare and scan over all the books. There's one I'm looking for, but I can't quite...

I notice an empty space, and my heart sinks. I don't know if it's the one I'm looking for, but the mere thought of it is enough to kill my secret smile.

Look at yourself, Raven. Excitement, joy, smiles. What in Azar's name is wrong with you? You aren't supposed to know anything of those things. You're supposed to be dark, and bitter, and cynical...

And yet, here you are. All excited and joyful as you play with your secret friend.

Playing...with a friend...just too weird...

My friend had a very happy, if not entirely functional, childhood until their family moved to the city. My childhood...it was all just preparation for my fate. There's was nothing to look fondly back on. But that didn't matter. My friend shared every happy little memory with me, and I felt like I was there. I was out there in the country, in a farmhouse with far too many pets to count. Woods and old barns were are playgrounds, our own little worlds. Winter days were eternally white. Summer nights were illuminated by fireflies and a late sunset. And every time the new leaves grew and the old leaves died, we were always awe-struck by the transformation.

I can only imagine...

For a moment, I think I found the book I'm looking for, but no such luck. And I turn a worried glance back at that gap. And my heart sinkers further.

I walk away, trying to salvage some hope. Not that there is much.

I go back to the occult section and grab a volume of the Oculus Pullus, absentmindedly flipping through the pages. I don't feel much like reading. I just feel like sulking. There's only one all-consuming thing on my mind, and I'm helpless to do anything about it. All I can do is wallow in self pity until I stop feeling like this.

With an audible thud, I close the tome and return it to it's proper place. I guess I should return to my proper place, too. But...

I check one last time. It's silly, but I want to think that somehow, everything will turn out okay in the end. I know it won't, but I want to believe.

The empty space on the shelf has been filled, and with the book I had in mind. And sure enough, I see what I'm looking for poking out of the pages.

I find the message tucked away in Macbeth, towards the end.

Macbeth is arguably William Shakespeare's most popular work.

As well as his shortest tragedy.

But it's only a work of fiction.

I smile again.