The Nameless

Not for the first time did his eyes roam about the bookshelves that circled the room. His mother did warn him. She had said it in her will. When the lawyer had entered the room with a large, formal envelope, he had certainly not expected a nicely written letter of instruction, and a key that had unlocked a door in the basement that had been hidden behind the large freezer. Still, she had warned him. She had specifically said to never, under any circumstance, touch so much as a book from any shelf. If one fell, leave it be. If one were off center, leave it be. But he had never listened to her. Not when she had told not to date that girl; not to go to that party.

This was one instance where he sincerely wished he had. He fingered the bottle of whiskey that rested on the end table beside his chair. He couldn't even remember if it had already been in the room, or if he had brought it down. He shuddered at a different thought, and quickly swigged from the bottle.

He held the bottle to his forehead, but, of course, the whispering only turned into snickers.
He set the bottle down and lifted his eyes, which, he quickly realized, he really shouldn't have done.
The will had told him to not touch the books. He had read almost all of them. All of them, save one, and that one happened to be the book he had looked at when he had raised his head. But when had his chair faced it? Hadn't it been on his left? Or had it been on his right? No...surely it had been on his left, because the door was now on his right, and it had certainly not been there before.

Another swig and his bottle was empty. The books went back to whispering. Because clearly that was what was going on. The whispering had only started after he read them. Really, it wasn't that they were horrible stories. Most of them were the best he'd ever read. Shakespeare. Dickinson. A few were about John Locke. A couple on Kierkegaard. Many more of whose origin, he could not guess. He suspected Greek. Possibly Babylonian. Overall, a highly unusual library. But certainly an impressive one! He frowned and swigged from the bottle, and he frowned even deeper. The bottle was empty. It had just been emptied into his stomach, and here it was half full again. And his therapist had called him a pessimist.

Maybe...maybe it wasn't the books....books couldn't whisper. But he only heard the whispers when he was in the library. His therapist had then told him to avoid it. And he had. For three days, his life had gone back to normal. Boring dead end job. His soul is as tasteless as the women he'd slept with.

However, any sense of "normality" was smashed to pieces when he had woken up the fourth day. Now, he had never screamed before in his life. Not so much as a peep. All of his friends had tried, more than once, to scare him. Nothing. But that morning...he'd screamed like a banshee. His scream had been such a scream that just about every neighbor on the block had called the police, who, when they had talked with him at the station, fined him for "disturbing the peace" with what they believed to be a very poor practical joke.

The ironic thing is, it wasn't that that caused him to give up. What had, rather, was the book. It was a plain book. The felt like old leather, had no illustration, and there was no title. No words adorned the cover. But what was odd about it was its color. When he'd first picked it up, he had thought it was a dark color, but when he moved it through the light, it looked different. In fact, it looked different every time he looked at it, even when he was looking at it. But that was absurd! It was dark in color....usually.

But that book...no matter how many times he tried, he couldn't bring himself to open it. Just looking at it gave him the feeling of looking into a deep mirror. And he hated mirrors. So the book had stayed shut. And the whispers had only laughed at him. It is not the book that matters, or is important. A book is nothing more than a vassal. Like all vassals, it is what the book contains that is important.

He adjusted himself in his chair; he needed to get some sort of rest. He still had his job. His boring dead-end job. His bed wasn't that comfortable anyways. Besides, he'd just wake up down here. Back when he'd had a girlfriend, he'd tried staying over at her place. Either he never slept at all (and certainly not for the reason you'd think), or he'd have the strangest dreams. In all of which was a...something. He could never tell what it was.

Really, his soul is tasteless, like drinking water. I've had enough water. When one wishes to drink, they'd rather have spiced wine, than cheap brandy. I have had enough of cheap brandy. Soon, one would open the book, and I would be freed.