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I’m Afraid

Tick… Tick… Tick…

Her eyes snapped open, a sharp inhale filling her lungs as her body did a sort of

involuntary quake with an abrupt stand that caused her to knock over a nearby chair. With her

heart pounding in her throat, she steadied herself against something nearby—it felt like wood,

and was enough to support the entirety of her weight until her breathing managed to calm, and

she was able to take in her surroundings.

It was an exceptionally well-lit room, circular in shape, with ascending walls that traveled

far up; until the faintest light could not reach, and a ceiling of dark shadows remained. The most

striking feature in the room was the shelves—bookshelves, to be precisely. They lined every

corner, warped perfectly against the walling, and even stretched high above. The shelves were

completely full of books, all had the exact same dark maroon leather binding, but lacked other

distinguishing marks.

She looked down at the desk in front of her. It was littered with blank pages, all of which

were of the highest quality… or at least what she could tell when she brushed her fingers across

their surface. There was an lamp, it appeared to run on oil—or perhaps candlelight. Next to her

dominant hand there was ink, and quail; and further off to the side, the chair she had toppled

when she stood up.

The rest of the room was lackluster, …or just completely lacking. As though the whole

purpose of this room was the desk, and nothing else.

“Where th’ hell am I…” She muttered, attempting to shake the lingering confusion.
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“Where is the wrong question,” A voice suddenly spoke out from behind her, and when

she snapped around to see who had spoken—her eyes settled on a gentleman. “You should be

asking yourself why.”

‘Gentleman’ was the first word that popped into her head. He was tall, with a frame that

carried skin as if it was stretched across the skeleton—but he was devilishly handsome, clean

shaven with a slightly receding line of black hair that was sprinkled with gray nearer the temples,

slicked back and smooth. He dressed simple, but finer than any man she had laid eyes on. His

tuxedo all black, with an obnoxiously bright golden tie. The tie matched his eyes, the only

unsettling feature he possessed: golden eyes with nigh-luminescence.

She had a plethora of questions, but the only one she could properly correlate was, “Who

the fuck are you?”

He chuckled, removing a palm from his pocket to wag a cautionary finger at her. “You

are a feisty one, I’ll be interested to see how yours plays out.” He cleared his throat, slightly

adjusting his tie. “I am the Librarian, and this—” He gestured that same hand towards the

massive walls of books. “—is my collection. No, hold on…” The Librarian seemed to be

contemplating something, tapping lightly against his lower lip. “Not ‘collection’, archive? No,

not archive. My garden?”

He was strolling forward while he spoke with all the leisure of a man strolling through his

garden, so it might have made sense, but she eyed him with scrutiny. It was something in the

way he spoke. He had no trace of an accent, his voice sounded a perfect collection of every

syllable, weaved in such a way that it was pleasant just to hear words spoken so perfectly.
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Her confusion was palpable, and he seemed to notice this, but still waited for her to speak

once more. “Why am I here?” She said finally, and the joy that etched across his fine features

was unmistakable.

“Outstanding! You, are here to write a book.”

“I don’t know how to write very good.” She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she knew

it.

“That isn’t an issue here, I can assure you. I have given you all the tools you need to

succeed. You need only write.”

“I want to leave.”

He exhaled, burying his hands in his pockets, and looked to the marbled flooring. The

Librarian had all the temperament of a man scolding a child in this moment. “You are welcome

to leave.”

She eyed him suspiciously, before beginning to walk towards one side of the room—

paused, turned… paused, and turned again. The realization dawned on her, and hopelessness

sunk into the pit of her stomach.

“There is no door...”

“There is no door.” He repeated, nodding some. “You cannot leave until you’ve written

your book and added it to the rest, I’m afraid.”

Her temper was surprisingly under control, and for some reason that was unfamiliar to

her. “Does it matter how long the book is?”

“The book will be as long as it needs to be.” His response was immediate, but it refueled

her resolve. She knew only that she needed to leave, and the easiest way to do that was by
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complying with this strange demand—picking the chair from the floor, repositioning it, and

plopping herself down.

Inhaling deeply, she took quill and dipped it in the ink—her intention was to write the

shortest story she could think of, but when she touched the paper… her hand had a mind of its

own.

‘I was born January 25th, 1966 at approximately 7:57 PM. In Nashville, Tennessee at

Descension Thomson General. My mother, Harper Lee Robison and my father, Dylan Howard

Robison, christened me Paula Sue Robison.

My earliest memory was at the age of seven, when a man named Ted McGunnery, who at

that time was my pastor and swim coach, took me into—’

Paula forced her hand to pause, and looked up to find the Librarian glancing down at her

work, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Beautiful handwriting, Ms. Robison. What did I tell

you? You are an excellent writer, here.”

“What in God’s name is this? Why do I remember this? I never knew where I was born,

and I never knew my father’s name.” She said, her calm still surprising her.

The Librarian seemed to flinch at the mention of ‘God’, and performed quite the

unflattering gesture of digging his pinky into his earlobe; as if the word itself had been wedged

in his ear. “This, is your story Paula Sue Robison, and only you can tell it… and once you are

done, you may leave.”

He paused, raising a finger, as he walked nearby. He lightly tapped across the surface of

several books at his height, before exclaiming “Ah, there you are” as he pulled free a book

identical to the others. Opening it, he thumbed a single passage.

“This was the fellow before you, an excellent academic student. Alexander Luther

Caldwell. He theorized his father named him this in reference to ‘Lex Luther’, do you know who

that is? Apparently it is a ‘comic-book’ character, I’ve heard of them before—I thought his was

an interesting story, albeit his ending was a bit tragic.”

The slam! of the book being closed was followed by him retreating another one. “Eric

Arthur Blair—now this man, was exceptional. I needn’t help him with his writing, no ma’am.

One of many to come, I’m sure.” Another slam! and another book, another name. He must have

gone through a dozen, all in various places, before halting at an empty space; finger tapping

against the shelf. “This, is where your story will go.”

Paula took a moment to consider this, and it seemed… reasonable, at the very least. She

hadn’t even noticed that her hand had started writing again, and with mesmerizing strokes of

perfect lettering.

She found it strange how she could remember the finest details of her life: the

neighborhood dog that bit her in the summer of 1974, the smell of her childhood home in the

peak summer days, and… the unfortunate circumstances of her childhood. Paula knew all that

she was and was capable of articulating everything that happened, no matter how traumatic or

unknown to her in the moment; she was all-knowing. Her eyes caught the paper to see that she

had begun a new chapter.

‘I met my Husband, Daniel Jefferson Blair while we were both stationed in Okinawa,

Japan. I was a 68Y, he was an 18D. I was instantly smitten with him. He was tall, handsome,

and carried himself with the casual swagger of a soldier rearing for combat—but still capable of

holding a conversation. There were few times in my life where everything just felt right, and with

Danny, everything was always just right.’

The naïve young soldier she had been quickly unfolded, just as it had some twenty-five

years ago. She wrote about their love, and the children they had—then she wrote about the

alcohol, and how she fell into a deep depression when Danny left for back-to-back deployments,

and that only worsened when September 9th, 2009 rolled around. Their hasty marriage took a

dark turn, and Paula bore third person witness to her first person recounting of the terrible person

she had been becoming.

Alcohol had never agreed with her, much like a relationship with Dr. Jekyll and Mr.

Hyde. She was a different person on drunk. It pained her to recount the events where she drank:

she drank after she gained weight from the pregnancies, she drank when the loneliness crept in

and she needed to fill the void. Sometimes, she just drank.

If she had been imposing her suffering on herself, she would not have cared too much—

but it was the children, two children—twins, even, that she felt for. They had endured an

uncaring mother, one that blamed them for the distance and heartache that came.

This chapter of her life seemed to go by quicker than the others. Her hopeful marriage

ended in a disastrous divorce, with Danny finding someone else—younger, more beautiful, and

starting a new family. It was this new family he fully supported, and this new family she hated.

She kept the kids, or rather it seemed like Danny was content with leaving them with her.

Paula wished this woman whose life she was detailing would take a moment, and stop… but

there were horrors she imposed on her children, a bitter distaste for them that stemmed from their

appearance alone. They looked just like their father.

Fresh, hot tears ran down her face and stained the satin paper beneath the stroke of her

quill. “This can’t be my life…” She said, her voice barely above a whisper.
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“Oh, but it is.” The Librarian replied with absolute glee, idly thumbing his way through

some of her completed pages; lips upturned in modest appreciation, making vague comments

along the lines of “Oh, this was very sad”, and “Why would you do something like this?

Outstanding!”

“I ruined my life.” Paula spoke, the quiver in her voice made her almost stutter.

“You lived your life.” The Librarian corrected.

“I did nothing… for years. I lost my husband, I tormented my children. How can you say

I’ve lived my life?” It never occurred to Paula until just now that she had lost the thick southern

accent she usually carried, and instead spoke eloquently.

“Some stories are shorter than others, some are more exciting than others… and some

stories are tragedies.” He raised both shoulders, shrugging as though to emphasize how helpless

the matter really was. “Your story happens to be both short, and tragic.”

Paula scanned the most recent pages she had produced. The children had moved out, and

left her. Her son never spoke to her, and her daughter often spoke too much. She knew in her

heart her son held hate in his heart for her—everything she had attempted to instill in him had the

opposite effect. It was in him that she saw a perfect combination of herself and Danny. Head-

strong, intelligence… but wasting his potential, cruel and easily prone to aggression. Her

daughter was a perfect combination of everything herself and Danny were not. Resourceful,

compassionate, and an inviting heart.

She had moved back to Nashville, and lived with her very first boyfriend—the first love

of her life, Roger Allen Atkins. In his youth he was a wild hot-rod; fast car, bare-chested, and

reckless. The years had not been kind to her, nor Roger. He lost a lot of mobility from a back

injury, and had taken to methamphetamines as a source of relief.

Paula felt loved when she was with Roger, and filling that void was more important than

the near constant damage she had done to herself. She knew that now. There was only a brief

period in her life where she halted her constant drug and alcohol abuse, and that was when she

discovered she was suffering from breast cancer—that had cost her the job she held at a local

RiteAid, due to there being a conflict with using too many ‘sick days’ and… having literal

cancer.

She beat it, but was still plagued by constant pains and aches—though that only served to

justify her substance abuse.

Remembering the promise of leaving, Paula once more put ink to quill.

‘I had just gotten off the phone with my Son. He remained his usual, detached self, and

spoke only vaguely about things that interested him. Still, I was happy that he had decided to

answer one of my calls for once. The night was winding down, and I was finishing my third

cigarette when an uncomfortable feeling crept through my head. Everything felt wrong, numb. I

couldn’t move my arms, a shudder traveled throughout my body. I don’t remember dropping my

phone, I only remember saying. “I’m Afraid.”’

Her quill paused, and she looked confused. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?” The Librarian questioned her, peering over a shoulder to observe

her writing with a soft ‘ah’; before he snatched her various pages from the desk—what he did

next, she did not fully understand. One moment he was holding the pages, and the next he was

holding another maroon colored book.

He placed in directly in front of her, and opened it to the most recent page.

Paula stared down at it, and only restated her question. “What happened?”

He tapped the end of the page with one finger. “This is where your story ends.”
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“So now what?”

Librarian arched a brow, it was his turn to appear confused. “Now nothing, your story has

ended. You need only accept the ending, sign your name, and you can leave.”

Paula slowly shook her head, placing down the quill. “I’m not doing anything until you

tell me what happened. I don’t remember anything after this, why don’t I remember up until this

point? Isn’t that how this works? I can remember the color of my backpack in fifth grade but not

how I got here?”

He considered her for a moment, before once more tapping the end of the page. “You

suffered a hemorrhagic stroke in the stem of your brain while on the phone with your son. He

heard your last words, despite how morbid they were, and you were pronounced braindead upon

arrival to the same Hospital you were born at—”

“Wait,” she interrupted, “I’m dead?”

He continued, ignoring her. “—quite fitting by the way—your daughter was adamant on

being positive you were braindead, requesting the staff perform three separate tests to confirm it.

Both your son and daughter were present at your bedside. Together they made the decision to

pull the plug. While going through your belongings, your son broke down into tears. Both your

children remember you, though they retain their original dispositions: your son hates you, your

daughter loves you.”

“I’m dead?” She repeated.

“Very.”

“Why the book, then?” She said, slowly.

He tilted his head some, with almost bird-like movement. “People often talk about their

‘lives flashing before their eyes’, don’t they? Well, this is the truth—this is the collection, the
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archive, of every story—man, woman, or child. Of course, I often have to help some folks with

their stories.”

“Does… that make this heaven, then?”

“I certainly don’t know about all that. This is where I am, this is my hand to play in life.

What happens after this… I can’t really say for certain.” He shrugged, again.

“Can I change my story?” Her request was a feeble one she already knew the answer to,

but felt compelled to ask anyway.

“The life you led was the story you wrote, and as one ends… so must the other.”

“Why isn’t this… bothering me?”

He exhaled, loudly. “Dying is when moments of fear and anguish have their spotlight…

but Death? Death, in and of itself, is peaceful. There is no pay, hunger, or fear here—here there

is only regret.”

She felt part of that was true, since she had arrived she felt an eerie calm to this… but the

tears that never seemed to stop were an awful side-effect. Paula felt as though she had lost

herself along the way, even when recounting who she really was—every moment, thought, and

feeling played out before her like a long, taxing screenplay; and now it was over, and she was

left with the knowledge.

“This isn’t fair. I… beat cancer, I was turning things around. Things were going to get

better.”

He blinked, and repeatedly without emotion. “Tragedies exist.”

There was a long pause between the two, a silence that went on for what felt like an

eternity.

“I don’t want to die.” She said finally.

“All stories need to end.”

With a deep breath, she once more picked up the quill.

‘The End.

By Paula Sue Robison.’

She closed the book… and was gone.

The Librarian reached out to spin the book around, gave it one final thumb through, and

nodded with approval. He closed the book, carried it over to the vacant slot, and slid it home.

“An excellent story regardless, Ms. Robison.”