The Secrets Within Pages

Greetings and Goodbyes

Fatal flaw, a term everyone who has attended any English class would be familiar with. A character trait that ultimately leads to their downfall. That was the first thing I wondered anytime I met someone new. The more secure ones were harder crack but usually you could figure it out the moment you met them. Sometimes even without exchanging words, just from their stance, their body language, the way they interact with others. If they held their nose too high or spoke with an air of pretentiousness- most cases it was pride. But it latched onto me when I wasn't able to crack what their fatal flaw was, like an incessant itch I couldn't scratch. Perhaps that was mine, stubbornness. Even if it were, thankfully, I had the upper hand because I was aware and although awareness seems like an easy trait, one that everyone should have. Its surprising how many lack it, which in turn leads to their demise. 

I could no longer see the brown texture of the cork board. I stick the new letter on the bombarded slab and fall onto my bed. 

The ringing sound of the phone pulls my attention. I extend my arm to pick it up off of the bedside table.

I sigh a breath of relief when I see it's my mother. 

"Mother!" I exclaim, hiding anything of concern from my voice.

"Oh sweetheart, I've missed you!" She replies enthusiastically. 

My mother and I always had a close relationship, one with no secrets, with no judgements. I was less close to my father, not for any animosity or tension. I loved my father most ardently but there was something different about the connection of a mother with her daughter. Just as there was something different in my relationship with my father, who always pushed me to be the best most actualised version of myself. Whereas, my mother was more the comforting type. Both were crucial to my life. A mother and a father were the pillars in a child's life, I know they are in mine. That's why I held such disdain to those who were not like that for their children or worse. I can never fathom how one can neglect their own flesh and blood or abuse them. To me, that was the worst crime. 

"I've missed you too." I say, realising how long its been since I've last seen them.

"Eleanor, I'm calling because I'm worried sick about you. I've just seen on the news about what's happening in Oxford. Why haven't you told me anything? Or called to let me know you're safe? I swear Eleanor, if you do this again im coming right to your dorm and living with you for the rest of your college years. Do you understand me?!" She yelled through the speaker, deafening my ears.

"You're right. I'm sorry, its just that i've been so busy and..." I trailed off, a headache forming.

"Oh darling, its alright. I just wanted to hear your voice. What's important is that you're okay. Your father wants you to come home for a bit, just until all this blows over." She insisted. 

"No, no I can't. I'm sorry. We've just been assigned a new professor and I have so much schoolwork to do." A lie, I in fact didn't have a lot of schoolwork to do, no I had investigative work to do.

She didn't say anything for a moment. 

"I'm okay, mother. I promise." Another lie. I was scared. 

"Will you make sure to call me more often? Or I promise you, Eleanor, I-" 

"I will, mother. I love you, goodbye." I assured her, ending the call.

My mother's fatal flaw was worrying too much, but perhaps that was every mother's.

~~~

Soon I was to leave to Vincent Fraser's home in London, with none other than Golding. As of late, my mind had been occupied by murder and blood and mystery. I needed an escape, something to ground me or I would go insane. 

The only place or one of few places that gave me that was Blackwell's bookshop. Living by myself in Oxford was daunting at first, considering it was the first time I'd been so far from my family but Blackwells made me forget anything had changed. 

I walk in, the bell atop the door chiming. 

"Eleanor! I'm offended, truly. Why has it taken you so long to visit again?" Questioned Aziz, one of the most frequent workers, one i'd become friends with due to how often I'd visit. He was an older gentlemen, one I looked up to like a father. 

"Ah Aziz! You know I'd love to live here if I could." I remarked, walking deeper into the store. 

"Sure." He scoffs sarcastically, earning laughter from me. "I'm so underappreciated." 

"Underpaid too." I add. "These shelves look incredible, Aziz. Have you received new book stock?" I wonder. 

"Every week or so." He says, occupied with something. 

The smell of pages, new and old, pervades the air. Teleporting me to an easier time, back when I first came into this shop. Unbeknown to me, that it would become one of my favourite places along with Aymes cafe. 

Cosy and warm, its walls embrace me as I enter and instantly I feel its comfort seep into my soul. Shelves of books from every part of the world, tables of different genres, different times all organised and displayed in such artistic ways. A spiralling staircase that leads to another layer of books and stacks in every corner as the sun filters through the cracks of all the novels, a kaleidoscope of light. 

My home away from home. 

I amble into the farthest corner of the store, and take a deep breath as I melt into the solitude. I  scan all the books in front of me, when I find a copy of  'The Phantom of the Opera' I attempt to pull it out of the shelf  but fail not being able to reach it.

"Not much for crowds?" A deep voice crooned, picking the book out and giving it to me. 

I gasped and turned around to face a man with eyes the deepest shade of brown, dark shaggy hair, and a permanent smirk it seemed.

"No, what gave it away?" I asked, an embarrassed smile forming. 

"Hiding away here." he replied, arms crossed as he leaned on the wall and gazed at me.

"Hmm and are you always this observant?" 

"Only to people who matter."

A slow grin forms on my face. "I see. And do I matter?" 

A smirk. His dimples make an appearance. 

"Phantom of the Opera. Interesting choice." He claimed. 

I should've suspected it. He's one of those pompous assholes who thinks his taste in books is superior to all others and judges if one doesn't coincide with what he thinks is "quality reading".

I look him up and down,"Care to elaborate?"

"Nothing, you just seem like the type." He continued.

Scoffing, I say. "Of course. Let me guess, you thought Elizabeth Bennet was exaggerating how she felt about Darcy and that he did nothing wrong in the beginning. From the looks of it, you've made Dorian Gray your personality and you think American Psycho is a literary masterpiece." 

"Oh you've got me, Love." He jokes sarcastically, grabbing his chest as though I've shot him.

"Prick." I murmur under my breath, turning around to leave.

"Tight-ass." 

How dare he?!  Frustration boiled inside me. I hated how vexed I was. 

I spin back around only to be greeted by his chest. I take a few steps back to be met by the book shelf. He grabs the top of it and whispers down my ear, "You're right. I do think Elizabeth was exaggerating. You two have that in common." And with that, he leaves. 

I found out later that week that we were in the same class. 

Me and Silas Golding.