I am reposting the last entry in order to get everyone, including myself, caught up/ reminded of where we’re at.
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?