Page 54 of The Librarian of Souls
The room spins around me. Handle this? This is a major security breach that I don’t know how to even remotely deal with. My first thought is that I need to call legal and get them on my side. Or maybe get my access code changed at this site and every other one because who fucking knows who is trustworthy now.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There is no use panicking. There isn’t. Nothing bad has happened. It is all totally fine. It definitely doesn’t matter that if something had happened, I would probably be arrested. That would have been a felony offence, and then I couldn’t vote or do anything, assuming I survive a prison sentence. God I don’t think I could survive-
“Joanna, earth to Joanna?” Gary sounds more surly than he was a few seconds ago and I rush to apologies.
“If nothing is missing, and everything seems alright, then we don’t need to do anything. This can all just be brushed under the rug. We can change my access code from here, right?”
“Sure, but I still have to report this. Clearly, your code has been leaked or whatever the computer people are calling it. Everyone on site will need to get a new code and that will mean a work ticket with the IT team at the main office because that’s too big for me.”
“Gary.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please.”
“Yo, boss man, you good with us covering up that graffiti?” One of the new workers stands in the doorway.
“What graffiti?” I ask. This area doesn’t have a tagging issue, but hoarding normally does bring out the artist in people.
“Some schmuck wrotebitches get stitchesnear the service entrance. No fucking clue what kinda tag that is.” He shrugs, his hands so casually shoved into his pockets. His hi-vis vest is stained with grime and he looks as relaxed as anyone could be, and I suppose rightly so. He’s got a simple job today.
Everything about this interaction is casual, but I feel moments away from throwing up.
“You get a picture of it?”
“Yeah, should be on your email-”
“Sorry, I have to go.” I rush. “Do whatever you need to, Gary, I trust your decision. You’re the best site manager I have ever worked with. I’m sorry.”
I grab my purse and run for the door. The guy is still blocking the exit, now just awkwardly staring at me until I shove past him. My chest is imploding, or exploding, I can’t tell. It is hard to breathe, and my head is swimming. I stagger into the narrow hallway, my feet dragging across the floor until I get to the elevator. I smash the button for the lobby and collapse into the railing.
What in the actual fuck is happening to me? Is this a panic attack?
Thoughts keep rushing through my head as I get flashes of men in black masks. The feeling of spit on my cheek. The way my body just gave into the fist being shoved into it. There was nothing to protect me.
I scratch at my chest before my fingers dig into the mark on my neck, but it isn’t helping. The nervous tick that has kept all emotions I have been keeping under a tight lid from boiling over isn’t enough. My nails dig into the slightly raised flesh until the beds hurt.
It isn’t enough. I am not enough. I am worthless.
I need to see Augustine.
20
Joanna
The brass placard shines in the afternoon sun as I wait for traffic to stop so I can cross the street. My fingers clench and unclench around my purse with every second that passes. There is so much noise surrounding me, it is all too much. I just need quiet for a few moments to breathe. The smooth purring timbre of Augustine’s voice reminding me that I am enough will cancel out thoughts in my head. I keep telling myself that as I bolt across the street. My flats slap across the pavement as I yank open the heavy doors.
Book smell and recycled air assault my senses, and suddenly I am wondering if I’ve ever been here during the day. Is Augustine even going to be here? The new shiny extension bleeds into the majesty of the original library. The shelves turn from white to dark wood and the lights get softer. The art on the walls is much less stock imagery, bulletin notices, and more careful museum curation– objects that Augustine has collected through the years just like those in his house, our home.
The sun shines through the curtains, bright and warm. Dust motes float across the room and guide me to his desk. He stands there resolutely, staring down at an old book with his pen in hand, notebook off to the side. Augustine looks up at me before I am even within speaking distance. Worry and confusion mar his brow when it clicks that he is seeing me in the middle of the afternoon. The mark on my neck pulses with my racing heart.
“Mon abeille?” he asks, voice a soothing balm for the ache in my chest.
“I- Something- It-” I sputter out a few nonsense words, and that’s all it takes for him to pull me into his embrace.
Augustine wraps his arms around me and his sands slip across my skin. He takes me around his desk until we are almost separated from the rest of the library. My hands shake, refusing to let go of my purse. I can’t stop shaking my head against his chest. The clip holding his tie to his shirt digs into my chin, but I push harder against it.
I am out of control. My breath comes in pants and short gasps. I don’t know what to do any more. The clutter in my head buzzes and swarms like a hive of once orderly bees, only to be shaken and tormented by an angry bear.
“Joanna.” His fingers grip the base of my neck and pull me back until I can look into his golden eyes. They flash behind his glasses and tears prick in my eyes. There are no words to explain what I need. I don’t know what to do. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head no, but then nod and say, “No, no, I was across the road and- and- and I just-” My words cut off again as I choke down a sob.
