My cheeks are burning in embarrassment as her voice is too loud, and I can’t help but think he heard her.
“What? No!”
Rebecca’s giggle is so contagious, and I’ve never seen her so carefree. It’s absolutely heartwarming. She quickly shifts her attention back to the movie, but my eyes remain fixated on the tattooed guy, and the intense anger in his eyes is unmistakable.
“Seriously? Keep your fucking hands to yourself.” His voice booms with the promise of danger, dark and loud, as he rises to his feet and directs his anger toward the ash-blonde girl. His roar comes from his throat as he walks out of the room, and I feel the urge to go after him and provide comfort.
But then, he departs the activity room, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence that hangs in the air.
––––––––
BOOKS HAVE NEVER CAUGHT my interest over the years, and to be frank, nothing has ever captured my attention enough to become a hobby. I never had one of those, and looking back, I remember feeling a deep emptiness in my life growing up. But I know the reason behind it, my childhood was too tough to find anything fun to do.
The younger version of me would have been taken aback to find out I’m now in a library, reading. She would have thought it was some weird joke because I always hated books without knowing why. Maybe the reason is that my father always loved to read, and his office was full of literature books annotated to the fullest. Since he died, I haven’t been able to read again, nor even come near any book at all without feeling as if I’m about to crumble from the pain in my chest. Fuck, I miss him so much.
Life is so fucking unfair.
They tried, they really did try–my grandparents–to have me read in school or just any young adult book they could find so that I would have something to occupy myself with, but their attempts failed miserably. Books have been too painful my entire life. Why read about a fictional world where everything is heaven and earth, where everyone lives happily ever after with loved ones when there is a reality that is so cruel and agonizing?
Every aspect of life is unfair to the point where nothing makes sense, and everything hurts like a million needles poking at you. Life hurts, and nothing will make it better. They say time heals all wounds, but why do I still feel like an entire open wound where every single organ is tipped over and ready to be ripped apart? Why do I still feel so hopeless remembering that time in my life when everything was turned upside down?
It’s only now that I can sense some comfort in reading, and a connection to my father that has enabled me to cope with the pain I’ve been experiencing inside for so long.
There is a strong aroma of old books, paper, and leather all around me, which used to disgust me but now makes me feel some peace despite my past. Ray told me a few days ago that there is a library in the building, though it’s on the other side, which takes at least ten minutes to cross if you walk. When he told me that, he must have seen how bored I was, and I have a feeling that he cares about the patients here, unlike the rest of the staff. Not even the psychologist cares.
Resting in bed during the morning, I was taken aback when I noticed my heart pounding, and my shallow breathing indicated anxiety that had suddenly arisen. During that time, I remember feeling a pang in my chest, as if someone had grabbed a knife and twisted it within my heart, a pressure so intense that I felt as if it was meant to kill me. My eyes started to water the next second, and the feeling of being pathetic still lingers inside me hours later. It was pathetic to look out at the rain pouring down on the world as tears poured down my cheeks. The despair I experienced at that moment was like a heavy weight on my chest with no apparent explanation.
Ray walked in, ready to take me to the cafeteria, when I sat there with my knees up to my chin and glistening eyes. He must have pitied me after seeing me like that because, the next moment, he smiled at me with mischief in his eyes. It was during the walk to breakfast that he showed me the way to the library to cheer me up, which it did.
I’ve been sitting here in this library for hours upon hours, working my way through different books. The musty odor of books fills my nostrils, and I hear someone’s footsteps in the background. Maybe it is fucked of me, or maybe not, but I find myself loving the dark aspects of stories with murder and mysteries rather than cute-dating books. Life is fucked, and reading about twisted characters somehow makes me feel less... twisted. The characters in the story create a feeling of companionship, making me feel less alone.
I’m not sure how long I have been sitting here, but my ass hurts from the stiff chair made of wood and metal. Cozied up in one corner of the room, I observe the trees outside, their leaves rustling in the wind and rain pattering against them. I have always been enamored by the rain when I look out the window, and it was the sole thing I could do at Grimhill Manor without incurring the wrath of the stern master.
When Ray told me about the library before, I expected a small and solemn atmosphere filled with the faint smell of paper. But in fact, it’s a library almost the same size as the cafeteria, with several rows of bookshelves lined up to the ceiling. Tables and chairs surround each long bookshelf, and the small aisles between the shelves lead to windows with soft light. There are at least ten such passages on the right side of the room, where all the windows have a view of the garden and all the trees and plants that grow freely here. The other side has many bookshelves that form aisles without chairs or tables so people can browse books easily.
When I first arrived here, I was overwhelmed by the array of books neatly organized by letters, authors, and genres, making it easy to find something new to try. Right now, there are seven books in front of me, whereas three of them lay to the side, seeming too dull for me to want to continue reading, and I’m a hundred pages into a dark romance book that looks intriguing.
The library is a cocoon of warmth, the most prominent color being the soft brown that reminds me of polished wood. From the vibrant emeralds to the rich mahogany, it’s clear that the institute has put in a lot of effort to create a calming atmosphere for its patients. The pastel green wooden shelves emit a gentle and calming energy, with the colors in pristine harmony. The entire library is built on rich, natural, and rustic colors that all create the ideal mix of a pleasant environment where you can relax without pressure from outsiders.
The atmosphere of this place is so different from the rest of the institute, and it’s almost like you have gone through a portal into a different world. The rest of this building is devoid of character; even the walls in the corridors lack any color, consisting only of gray and white, and the overwhelming smell of hand sanitizer lingers in the air.
Ray informed me earlier that it’s against security regulations for me to bring books into my room, which is a shame since I wanted something to read before sleeping. Having a book with me at night would have provided me with companionship and solace as the whispers of demons came to me in the darkness, casting me into a fitful sleep full of nightmares.
No matter how much I despise this dank and musty place, I’m unable to escape. The paper in my room remains almost blank, except for those first words I wrote down after Rebecca warned me about not escaping. Recently, I have been searching desperately for a way out, but I haven’t found any solution, and right now, I feel overwhelmed and trapped. I can almost hear the walls whispering menacingly as if they are about to launch an attack. Even if nothing has happened during the past week, I still have this undeniably bad feeling deep inside my gut, screaming at me that something is wrong and that shit is about to go down.
I am in the midst of creating a dog’s ear to mark the page in the book, as I don’t have any bookmarks available when someone taps me on the shoulder. The sudden movement prompts my heart to jump to the pit of my throat in response.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath before turning my gaze toward the person, unsure of what they want from me.
An unknown man with a wild grin that shows off his crooked teeth stands before me, and I cannot look away. Aside from its beauty, his face is an expression of hollow depth, with green eyes that show no emotion. He stands there in silence for several seconds, his eyes never leaving me as my unease grows more palpable. Despite my apprehension, he pays no attention to me, and a strange feeling rises inside me, so I stare at him with a frigid, disinterested gaze. His head is completely bald and smooth as if he has recently shaved it, and his slender upper body is adorned with a gray polo collar, clinging to his neck like a second skin. The tight-knit shirt must be uncomfortable on the neck, with its polo collar chafing against his skin.
I was a child when I tried on my grandmother’s sweater, and it was so tight it felt like a boa constrictor squeezed me. I started panicking, and my grandmother had to help me remove it as quickly as possible.
“Did you want something?” I ask as my gaze flickers around, trying to see if anyone is nearby, but I am alone in this aisle.
I try to be polite, but my dull emotions make it difficult. Especially since some weird boy touched me, then spent seconds staring at me without saying a word. His presence is so different from the tattooed guy; his eyes are dark and brooding, filled with delicious sinful promises, while this guy makes me uncomfortable with his eerie aura.
He stares at me, and I’m taken aback by the vibrancy of his eyes, as green as dried grass.
