The Story Man

2

I dreamt of the librarian that night. At first, it was peaceful, watching her sit with a novel in her lap and notes scattered around her. The library window cast bright light onto her unique skin, highlighting it like gold and creating shadowed black holes where the light couldn't reach her flesh. Then, as I investigated further, I caught a glance at the cover of the book.

The shock made my bones feel like cracking, made my lungs feel as if they weighed thousands of pounds.

"Charles Blake"

Was that my name I read? Again, I bent to look at the cover. She paid me no mind.

Yes, that was me. My photo, too. I could recognize that short, unkempt hair and lifeless hazel eyes anywhere. My jaw was clenched in the picture; I could the outline clearly, as well as my eagle-beak of a nose and prickly, three-day-old stubble.

"It's a war story," the librarian told me suddenly, making me jump. Still, she didn't move. When I met her gaze, she was regarding me with little interest. This wasn't the woman I met in the library that day; her eyes weren't cheerful and her smile was gone.

She looked like a real bitch now.

"It's a war story, Charles," she repeated. She refused to blink.

"Your story is a good one."

I woke in a cold sweat.

Outside, the sky was still dark and lifeless. No stars shone tonight. The clock beside my bed read as half-past two. Was it always this cold at night? I found myself shivering under the sheets after a few moments of willing the dream away. I didn't want to think about this. I wanted to return the book and find a different library.

I decided that a midnight dinner was in order. I could hear my good friend's voice, reminding me not to eat, reminding me to starve... but this wasn't the collapse of 1929. This was 2019. Times were different. My good friend was dead; I had left him behind long ago.

I drank the rest of my leftover coffee and glanced across the kitchen to the book. It mocked me from the countertop, telling me to read it and return it to the librarian. Then I would be able to see her again. She didn't seem like the kind to enjoy my stories. She was so different in that skin. But why would anyone want to read stories to about war? How could she be 'inspired' by them? Only those who had experienced it would ever want to forget it, I decided bitterly. If she really experienced it, she would never want to pick up a book again.

Give her a dose of her own medicine.

I glanced at the book again. Then back to my coffee cup.

Then, as the clock ticked past fifteen-to-three, I grabbed a pen and a blank leaf of paper.

——

"I wasn't sure where exactly to return this," I told her.

The librarian looked up from her papers, her eyebrows raising when she recognized me. "Oh! Hey, you're done with the book? That was quick."

"Yeah," I replied. I had copied the pages I needed into a notebook. "Can I just give it to you?"

"Of course."

As she took it, the folded paper burned my palm, hidden inside my coat pocket. My heartbeat quickened. Just give it to her.

"Is there anything else I can help you find?"

I paused. Then I took a deep breath.

"Um... no, I just...."

She stared at me expectantly. That birthmark caught my eye again.

"You said you liked stories told from war... thought maybe you'd like to read this." The paper was still hot, and the burn didn't ease when I handed her the story. I dug my thumbnail into the side of my index finger.

"Do you write?" she asked as she unfolded the paper. Today, her nails were grey.

"Uh, no. Not usually."

"Are you a soldier?"

This made me hesitate. I was, but she would never believe me if I told her I had fought on the western front during Hitler's reign, or in the Somme in 1916.

"...Yeah. I am. You're not, are you?"

Stupid question. She wouldn't want to read these if she-

"Yeah. I just finished my first peacekeeping mission in Mali. I go back to that area in a few months. Whereabouts were you stationed?"

My mouth fell open at her sheepish voice. How could she not puke at the thought of reading a story she could relate to? She was so inspired as a child; was she still inspired by the slaughter?

"I, Uh...." My lips suctioned together while my tongue turned dry. I tried to swallow. There was nothing left to funnel down my throat. Even if anything did manage to find its way down, it would become trapped in the gaping hole left by my twisting stomach.

"I have to go." the words were choked on, forced.

She smiled again, although I could tell that she was hurt. She wanted to hear my story.

She didn't know it was sitting in her hands.

——

That night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I was restless. No amount of sleeping pills helped. I worried I would have taken too many if I took anymore.

Would that really be so bad?

The thought invaded my senses like wildfire. It terrified me at first, making my stomach lurch and my fingers twitch. I steadied myself on the sink an bit my tongue against the new, bitter taste flooding between my teeth.

Would that really be so bad?

Only once in my life before moving to Vancouver had I considered suicide. Surprisingly, those thoughts never came to me when I was scared. They never overcame my brain in the middle of a war. Even with a rifle in my hand, all I wanted to do was live.

It was the silence in which this one voice spoke to me.

Would that really so bad?

But, once the fear dispersed slightly, I could feel my strength returning. And, with that strength, I pushed the thoughts away. It took time: ten minutes of staring into the mirror, staring at nothing, staring into myself.

The strength allowed me to breathe. I could swallow. I could feel. I could taste the night air beyond the bitterness.

I opened the mirror, returned the sleeping medication to its home on the middle glass shelf, and slammed the mirror shut. Then I flicked the lights off, closed the bathroom door, and slipped into bed.

——

During work the next day, I was distracted, and nearly chopped my own thumb off. I was wondering how she enjoyed the story. Did she go home and suffer from nightmares of families destroyed by war? Did she go home to a boyfriend and show him the tale of my adventures? What if I had made a mistake? Who was I kidding? How could I ever make her feel as I do? She had never been in no-man's land. She would never have to walk through hell to survive in a trench or on a beach where her and her comrades knew the struggle for the upper hand was futile.

My computer still wasn't setup by dinner. It sat on the counter, lonely without its internet direction booker to accompany it. I was faced with a problem after my meal. Take a shower? Sleep? Do dishes? Battle with that wicked piece of technology that taunted me from across the room?

Write her another story?

I couldn't deny that writing that paper for her helped me. No nightmares visited me last night after my episode in the bathroom. Whether it was the paper or the pills, I wasn't sure, but together, they worked wonders.

It didn't take me long to decide. She would get another story, and I would get another peaceful night of rest.