A Hundred Visions and Revisions

Short Story: You Don't Stay for Nothing

"There must be something in books, something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing." 

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

A quick glance at his watch told him that it was almost time. he stood up slowly from his crouched position in the bushes across the street. He froze when he felt his shoulder brush a wayward branch and gently moved it aside. He stretched cautiously and watched the lights turn out one by one in the building across the street. Finally only the lobby light was still burning and he saw his chance. 

He jogged across the road and took the steps two at a time. He stopped in the shadows just outside the doors and watched the woman behind the desk slowly stand up and walk into the back room. 

This was it. He easeed the door open and slid inside. He held the door gently waiting for the faint click to signify it was closed. It clicked and the man grinned as a wave of triumph washed over him. 

The click of the woman's heels jolted him back to the present. In two steps he was in front of a bathroom door and he pulled it open quickly. The heels were getting closer and he threw himself into the room, letting go of the handle. He grabbed frantically at the door trying to quet the motiuon but he was too late. The door came to a gentle rest but it was slightly ajar. 

The motion sensitive light had flashed on with his wild entrance into the room and the man's heart began pounding. What if the woman saw the door ajar? Noticed that the light was on? He curled into the corner farthest away from the door but the red light of the motion sensor blinked evilly at him. 

The click of heels came closer and closer to the door and he held his breath as it stopped outside the door. The woman sighed and the man could hear her grasp the handle, the click of a ring on the metal handle sending shivers down his spine. The door closed. 

The heels continued to the right and when he heard the crash of the heavy outside doors, the man let out his breath. 

He counted to a thousand then let himself out of the bathroom. The lobby was pitch black, the light from the bathroom formed a yellow rectangle on the floor in front of him and a street lamp threw the shadows of tress through the glass doors. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flashlight. He moved quickly through the lobby and into the stacks. 

The Harrison Memorial Library was distinctly proud of its organizational blueprint. The lobby was open and lined with couches and chairs. To the left was the non-fiction room with a heavy oak door and sound-proofed study rooms and computer stalls. It was, as the librarian was often heard to say, a serious room for serious people. 

To the right, which was the direction the man chose, were two doors. One brightly colored orange door was covered in tigers and jungle cats and led quite understandably to the children's section. The other door, a deep blue, led to the fiction section. 

The man opend the deep blue door and made a beeline for the shelf labeled with a brigh red "H." Midway down the aisle, he slowed and ran his flashlight over the titles until he came to what he wanted. The flashlight glinted off the raised gold letters that said "Hills." He reached out with one finger and slowly pulled both copies of "The Blue Blood Lie" from the shelf and tucked them under his arm. He made his way back out the deep blue door, across the lobby, and through the heavy glass doors. Sticking to the shadows, he moved around the building to the carefully shaded picnic area in the back. Here, surrounded by trees and with no other eyes to see, the man studied the books. 

The cover showed a limp arm with a slit wrist leaking blood, the blood dripped down, turning from red to blue and pooling into a blue puddle along the bottom. Alongside the color-changing drops, the title appeared and in the blue puddle the author's full name: "Ian J. Hills" stood out in the same raised gold lettering. 

The man put the flashlight in his mouth and set the books on the ground in front of him. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a gold Zippo lighter. He crouched down and flipped the lighter open, studying the blue flame that instantly appeared. 

He slowly lowered the flame, touching it to the edge of the book. The paper cover caught and burned brightly. The man stayed, crouched by the fire unti lhe was sure both books were completely burned. 

Then he stood, stretched, and put the flashlight back in his pocket. He walked away flicking his lighter open and shut. He walked to his car and dropped the lighter on he passenger's seat. The domelight glinted on the monogram "IJH." 

Ian Hills turned the key in the ignition and pulled into the street. 

"There must be something in books, something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing." 

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451