The Library On The Corner of Jacksonville

The library on the corner of Jacksonville used to be an orphanage before the explosion — and my favorite place in the world. People claimed it was haunted, though the only ghosts I’d seen were characters brought to life by the sparkle of imagination.

A stroke of destiny led me to my former wellspring of inspiration when I sought shelter from a summer thunderstorm that afternoon. Immersed in a world of fantasy and magic, of adventures on a pirate ship, of serendipitous strolls through cobbled courtyards, I forgot for a moment the Beast that prowled the catacombs of my mind.

By the time I stepped out of the library, the rain had mellowed to a drizzle, the clouds rolling off to a leaden sky. The crowd beneath a sea of umbrellas jostled along the wet pavement. A sullen mood hung in the cold, petrichor-laden air. Puddles shimmered under the streetlights. A flurry of movement drew my attention to a reflection in a pool, an image of a tall man wearing a newsboy cap standing behind me, a hint of a smile on his face. Traces of boyhood lingered about him. He couldn’t be much more than twenty.

I spun around. He wasn’t there. I turned, and he appeared in the water once more. We did this a few times, the stranger in the puddle and I, pirouetting back and forth, an intimate ballet.

My bus arrived, and people in the queue stepped over the puddle. He vanished from sight, though throughout the ride, he nestled within my heart. The stranger in the puddle — was he a ghost? Who was he before he’d died? Was it the magical denouement of an ephemeral play, or would I see him again?

That night, Daddy stormed into my room, reeking of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. I didn’t dare lock my door — Daddy had warned me. He climbed on top and twirled a finger through my curls, his liquored breath strong and familiar, his words a susurrus whisper, “Baby girl, did you miss me?”

I didn’t respond. By now, I’d learned it didn’t matter what I said. He never listened. The things he’d done were our secrets to keep, my shame to bear.

His calloused hands crept beneath my gown and dragged across my bare skin, his touch a rasp on my devotion. There had been a time when I loved him. Worshipped him. He comforted me as we watched Mommy wither, losing masses of hair each day. At the funeral, he’d gripped my hand and said to me, “It’s just us now.”

Daddy did love me. He raised me up, read me bedtime stories, and took me to the fair, bought me pretty things to show he cared. As I blossomed into womanhood, there were subtle differences in Daddy’s demeanor, puzzling nonetheless.

One day, he’d said, “You look just like your mother.” We were out in the pine woods, miles from civilization. He’d gazed at me, mesmerized — I was the wide-eyed deer he stalked.

Our insidious nocturnes had begun while the rest of the world slept.

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for it to be over fast. He hooked his thumbs into my panties and pulled them down. The Beast shaped from my darkest emotions fed on my pain and rampaged through my safe place. My mind flitted to a visage of another, the face of the ghost in the puddle.

Daddy left in the wee hours of the morning. He was toxic, an abhorrent being. I’d been biding my time, staring into an abyss, hoping he’d realize his crime, that we shouldn’t be doing this. His love I could never attain. I shouldn’t let him hurt me again. Alone in a world where love no longer dwelled, I would never be whole. It was time to set free my battered soul.

The panacea to my misery lay within my grasp.

His razor.

Wincing, I incised my wrists lengthways along languid-blue veins. Red ribbons of blood unfurled in the tepid water. The bathtub was my first choice, so I wouldn’t leave much of a mess. Even in death, I thought of him, mourned the loss of the father I once had.

I drifted into the night, past the library on the corner of Jacksonville, where a figure stood, tall and pale, his hair a perfect mop of red beneath a newsboy cap. His smile was gentle with dimples that balmed my heart. He held out his hand.

His name’s Alexander. I call him Xander. He lived around here with other children but never knew who his parents were.

The library on the corner of Jacksonville illuminated by an opulent glow draws us both. We talk and share stories. Mostly I listen. He says, in time, the dreadful memories will fade. Xander’s voice is a mellifluous lullaby, soothing the Beast in my mind to an eternal slumber.

A shaft of light beaming from the heavens bathes me in healing warmth. Xander says I should leave, but his eyes beseech me to stay.

It’s raining. Xander and I sneak out to gambol under the stars, two evanescent figures among the living, unencumbered by our pasts. The ripples in the puddle reflect the streetlights. Amidst the sparkling diamonds, I catch a glimpse of an image. An image of my smiling self.