Okay. More story.
This room, guys. It had dozens of shelves, some as high as 20 feet tall. The shelves were as eclectic as the books filling them. As I walked around, utterly enthralled, I saw titles in a hundred languages. The titles I could read dealt with subjects from Anthropology, to theoretical economic implications of Zoltron. I flipped through various books in languages I couldn’t read, and they had wonderful diagrams. Diagrams that would look amazing on the wall of an sort of building. As I reached for my phone to get a picture of a particularly fantastic one, I relaized I had left my phone behind. Which, in turn, reminded me that I wasn’t chilling in an awesome room. I remembered that I was, in fact, running for my life.
I rushed back to the door, and hey, there’s no knob. The door didn’t open from the inside. And that’s super frightening. This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a prison. A really comfy and pretty one, but a prison without windows or a bathroom. So, naturally, I trapped myself inside it. And yet, I was drawn back to the books. I did a kind of emotional shrug, and went back to the shelves. I browsed for a bit, to find the most interesting English book. When I found it, I pulled it, sat on the bed, and read.
I read deeply. I had always done that. My entire life, I was able to fall deeply into anything with pages. Before I learned to read, I flip through art and architecture books. I’d wistfully admire the brushstrokes and brick facades. Eventually, I learned to read. Everything. Pamphlets, catalogs, books, magazines, and comics. Textbooks, I didn’t do homework, but I’d read the whole damn thing.
Then suddenly, I heard the screech of tires. And I was 17 again. And everyone around me was covered in blood. Why was I at prom again?