Page 4 of Monsters
I guess I’d hoped this place would be the exception. That here, nothing could stay hidden.
I glance at the laminated sign above the librarian’s head, reading it again with a small huff.
I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, nor to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, document or other object belonging to it or in its custody; not to bring into the Library, or kindle therein, any fire or flame, and not to smoke in the Library; and I promise to obey all rules of the Library.
It’s posted in several places, as if they hope the repetitiveness will make people follow the rules. To be fair, as one of the oldest libraries in all of Europe, they certainly have to safeguard the books. I stand up straighter and look around, expecting someone to call me out, expecting to be chastised for being here. However, no one cares. Iamusing the pass to research religious texts. And Iamgetting a degree in Religious Studies, so conducting research in here is not that far-fetched. A few of my classmates have been here, too.
Someone chuckles across the room, and the sound reverberates along the tall ceiling. It’s busy for the start of term. I know Oxford is a ruthless academic institution, but the amount of people in here surprises me. I guess it’s not that exclusive, after all. I adjust my computer bag and look down at my nails as the librarian continues to check my books in.
It’s been three years since I left everything behind in Paris and moved across the channel to London, finally settling here in Oxford. Religious Studies intrigued me. The biggest thing to happen to mankind—the reason some people lived.
The reason some peoplekilled.
Of course it interested me because of my past. Kidnapped by a man who moonlighted as a priest was bound to fuck me up in ways I’d only begun to understand. So, while my major didn’t surprise anyone, I knew the real reason I was here. In Oxford. In the Bodleian.
“Ms. Snow?” I look up to find the lanky male librarian staring at me, waiting for an answer. “It appears you’ve forgotten The Pulpit, volume XXIX,” he says, glancing at the slip of paper in his hand.
“Crap. Sorry.” I check my computer bag in case it had fallen in at some point, but I don’t see it. “You know what? I think it’s still at my desk. One second.”
“Sure. Just make sure you bring it back here, so we know you’re not stealing.”
His face is stern, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s joking. I’m still not used to the dry, British humor.
“I promise to come right back,” I say, laughing.
“Happens all the time.” He smiles, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling. He’s older than me by at least ten years, but attractive in a refined, English prep school kind of way. “We won’t put you in the Bodleian dungeon this time. Wouldn’t want the monsters to eat you, now, would we?” He gives me a large smile as he finishes scanning my other books back in. He has no idea how ironic his suggestion is, especially to me. Monsters don’t live in closets or behind doors. They don’t sleep under your bed.They hide in plain sight.And then they exist in your head. And my head is filled with them.
What I have survived would kill him.
“No, wouldn’t want that.” I slowly turn and make my way to the heavy, wooden desk I just vacated. I check my phone, noticing a text from my best friend, Lily.
I’m bringing six bottles of wine for this weekend. Too much?
Smiling, I make a mental note to respond to her later. I find the book just where I left it, and I quickly flick through the pages, making sure I’ve looked it over. The Bodleian prefers clean, dry hands over gloves, so as my bare hands graze the old paper, I ignore the nervousness and heavy responsibility weighing on my shoulders. The papyrus in the book is worn, yellowed, and has a musty smell, but the quality is exquisite. It looks brand new despite being over 200 years old. They don’t make books like this anymore.
I chew on my thumb and look down, but I don’t register the words before me. I know it’s probably futile. You can’t explain away a person’s inner demons. Some people are born corrupted and use their platform for harm rather than good. I know this. If I really allow myself to think about it, I know what happened to me was not some ancient religious calling or justification, and the man who did those things to me had no excuses backed up by a thousand-year-old passage. It’s not that Iwantedto give him a pass, but I needed to know my life—what happened to me—was not because something was wrong withme.That maybe I deserved it for whatever reason. That perhaps it was retribution for whatever I’d done in a past life, or I’d atoned for some sin I wasn’t aware of.
If that was the case, maybe I could accept it and move on. Like those people who seem so at peace—as if theyknowthe progression of their life was all for a reason. They feel it beneath their skin, in everything they do. I strived to be like that. I craved that intuition, thattranquility, but I also knew I’d never achieve it. Not with the fire inside of me—the anger and rage that seemed to find me in the slow and distracted moments of my life.
My eyes scan a passage about halfway through the book, and as my eyes read the rest of the line, someone moves behind me. I whip around as my racing heartbeat throbs in my throat. I see the hint of something black as it disappears behind one of the bookshelves.
You are never going anywhere. Do you understand? If you try to run, if you even think about it again, I will know.
Except I did. I escaped. And now I’m here, trying to make sense of it all.
And I would escape again if I had to.
Breathing heavily, I close the book gently, though I really want to slam it shut. My mind is heavy with too many things—old books, old memories, my coursework… I’ll come back tomorrow and delve into this book a bit deeper. Gathering my things, I head toward the exit of the reading room. I pass the old, aged wooden desks, their surface bumpy from ancient carvings. They sit opposite the tall bookshelves containing some of the rarest manuscripts known to man.
In the Bodleian, it’s hard not to feel intimidated by the history pressing down on your shoulders. The smell of old ink and paper, of leather, of wet wood and stone from the notorious English weather. The metallic scent lingers everywhere, but it’s the most potent here in this reading room. The carved ceilings give way to gigantic, gothic windows made of stained glass. The dark wooden floor creaks with each step, reminding you of the souls who passed through this very walkway during the last four hundred plus years, of the fragility of the old foundation.
I hurry past other students toward the librarian’s desk. I’m not recognized here, but I do my best to keep a low profile anyway. I’m not in Oxford to make friends, aside from Zoey, my roommate.
I’m in Oxford to learn.
Or, tounlearn.
A small part of me believeshispeople are still looking for me, though I know it’s impossible. They were all charged and convicted. But the doubt has never left me. It exists at night, when I hear a strange noise. When someone looks at me on the train for a second too long. The feeling of someonewatching, waiting, ready to pounce. Even now, years later, I can never let my guard down. If I assume I’m ever truly free, then I will have failed my past self, and all of the girls who never made it out.
