The Last Page

“Oblivion is not a punishment. It is a mercy reserved for those who never finish their sentences.” — August Denier

Home is a small one room apartment on the third floor of a nondescript aging concrete building close to the main city library where I work. It was most likely meant to house middle-class families, but now it houses mostly the quiet, the strange, and the forgotten.

It is an older place that has not been remodelled since I moved in, maybe not for decades. It smells faintly of old books, stale coffee, and lavender that had long since faded. Filtered, pale light shines through the large grimy windows and softens the room.

The walls are an off white color, more yellowed with time than intent. It is ok though. Most of the walls are covered with floor to ceiling bookshelves stuffed full of books. I have read them all, most of them more than once.

My mom tells me that I should find another place to live, that the neighborhood is not safe. What she really wants is for me to get married, move into a nice house somewhere, and raise a family. I don’t want to start a family, and I don’t mind the neighborhood. This apartment is my sanctuary, and I usually only leave to go to work or get food.

Everything I need and love is here. I have my books and endless stacks of finished and unfinished manuscripts. On the desk, under a white cover is my vintage Royal typewriter. I bought it in a retro-shop with my New Years money when I was 10 years old. I don’t use it anymore, but I can’t let myself get rid of it either. It is a lovely piece of nostalgia. Next to it is my trusty laptop with its frayed and taped power cord and screen spackled with fingerprints and post-it notes,

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am a writer. My name is Lina Morane, but you probably know me as August Denier, the New York Times best selling author. The author of books like The Weight of Silence or The Saltwater Doctrine. My readers often describe me as being “coldly beautiful.” However, literary critics will say that my tone is “clinical compassion.” They often claim that I am interested in human failure, but never let myself be drawn into emotion. They will either compare me to Paul Auster, Kazuo Ishiguro, or JM Coetzee. Usually they will follow by stating that my writing is “intellectual but emotionally remote.”

Well, that is what they used to say. Now they don’t say much. I haven’t published anything in 5 years. When I am not working at the library, I am here writing. I spent my 33rd birthday here surrounded by my piles of unfinished manuscripts. The stories I have started, but never finished. It has been so long since I completed anything, even my publisher and publicist have stopped calling me.

* * *

This morning started out like any other. I woke up at 10:00 am to the music on my phone. I stumbled out of bed, and made my way to that area of the living room that made for a kitchen. I put the kettle on the stove to make coffee, then opened the refrigerator looking for some food. It had been several days since I had gone to the store, so I had to settle for vanilla pudding and an apple for breakfast.

I ate my pudding quietly and looked out the window. I enjoyed looking at the world from the safety of a window. While I stared at the city beyond the glass, I noticed that the only potted plant I have been able to keep alive was laying on its side. Funny, I don’t remember knocking that over last night.

I finished my coffee, then set the plant upright, where it belonged. I went to my cramped, little bathroom to get ready for work. Saturday’s at the library are the worst. It takes more effort than normal to get ready to leave. My pulse increased and sweat built on my brow as I made my way to the door

I went to unlock the door only to find that the two latches were unlocked already. That is weird. I always lock the door twice. Once out of habit. Once out of fear. How could I have forgotten?

I opened the door to leave and noticed that someone had put a flyer into the mailslot. I picked it up expecting a flyer for a new take-out place, but it wasn’t. It was a paper note. Someone had written, “you're not invisible, you know” in a ballpoint pen. I threw the note away thinking that it might be a practical joke played by the kids in the neighborhood.

I put on my headphones and drifted into my own fabricated world. The music helped me feel safe, but I was oblivious to the world around me. I was oblivious to the man across the street who tried to get my attention. I was oblivious to the man that was following me.

* * *

The library smelled of old books, toner, and the last trace of winter coats. It was quiet like it always was in the afternoon. It wasn’t the comforting type of quiet, but the sort that hummed against your teeth, just loud enough to remind you that you were alone.

I slipped behind the desk, nodded to Dana who had already logged into the system and was sipping coffee from her "Shhh Happens" mug.

“You're late,” she said without looking at me. Her eyes were scanning the screen like she was hunting for typos.

“I walked.”

“You always walk.”

I didn’t answer. She knew why. Crowded buses made me feel like my lungs were folding in on themselves. I couldn’t handle the pressing bodies, the staring eyes, or the sudden braking. I would rather be cold and tired than be touched by strangers.

Dana handed me a stack of returns, “Fiction is light today. Just a couple of classics and a weird graphic novel with blood on the cover.”

“Fun.”

She snorted and turned back to her screen. I slipped the books onto the cart and pushed it towards the back racks. The wheels squeaked like they were trying to apologize for the silence.

* * *

A half an hour later, I was half way through alphabetizing a stack of books when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It buzzed three times in quick succession before I took it out.

It was my mom. I hesitated with my thumb over the screen trying to decide if I was going to answer it. I finally gave in knowing that I would regret it.

“Lina,” she said, not bothering to even say hello. “I saw Mariko’s daughter got engaged. She’s twenty-seven.”

“Mom, I’m working.”

“Well maybe if you got out more…”

“I work in a public library, Mom. Not a monastery.”

There was a pause followed shortly by a long sigh. That was her signature move.

“You know what I mean. Men don’t fall through windows. You have to meet them.”

“I’m not looking to get married.”

“Of course you’re not. You’d have to leave your apartment for that.”

I could hear the clatter of her stove in the background. She was cooking. Probably something with garlic and guilt.

“You’re not even writing anymore,” she added.

“I have to go,” I said. “There’s someone waiting.”

It was a lie. I hung up before she could question it.

* * *

Back at the desk, Dana glanced at me sideways. “She on her crusade again?”

“She is consistent, I will give her that.”

Dana smiled faintly. “My mom wanted me to be a dental hygienist. I told her that I would rather floss strangers’ minds.”

I smiled. This time it was a real one. Dana wasn’t really my friend, not in the way people mean it, but she tried. She spoke like she knew that I was listening, even if I didn’t always answer back.

That is when he appeared. It was like in the movies. One second the space in front of the desk was empty. Next, it was filled by a man in a dark coat holding a book.

He didn’t look like much. He had an average height, pale skin, and an average face framed with dark hair. I didn't want to remember his eyes. Not because they were unusual, but because they weren't. Everything about him was overly normal.

He didn’t say anything. He simply placed the book on the counter.

Saltwater Doctrine by August Denier

The sight of the book made my mouth go dry. I never got used to checking out my own books.

I scanned the barcode and tried to keep my voice level. “Due in three weeks.”

He didn’t move right away. In a voice that was smooth, quiet, and a shade too intimate he said, “I love his work. His characters always die beautifully.”

I looked up, but he was already walking away.

Dana leaned around the monitor, one eyebrow raised. “What was that all about?”

I didn’t answer.

She shrugged. “Creeps come and go. The library's full of ghosts.”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I tucked my trembling hand under the desk out of site. It was trembling because what he said was right. They do.

* * *

I walked home in silence that evening after we closed the library after closing. Dana had offered to walk me home, but I had insisted that everything was alright. I am not sure she believed me, but she let me go anyway.

I closed my jacket tight around me as the snow began to fall. I walked forward with my thoughts returning to the man in the library. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing, but I wasn’t succeeding. What did he mean by dying beautifully? Why did it startle me so much?

I climbed the stairs slowly. The hallway was deathly quiet. I approached the door, and heard music coming from inside my apartment. It was the soft instrumental sounds of the album I played when I had writer's block. That music usually helped me think clearly, but not today. I know that I didn’t leave the music on.

I cautiously opened the door, and worked my way down the hall past the bathroom. The first thing I noticed was that the window by the balcony was open. I never open the window in the winter. This wasn’t right. Something was definitely wrong.

I felt panic starting to overtake me when I noticed that my manuscript box was on the table. It was opened and the manuscripts were scattered everywhere and warped at the edges like someone had been reading them.

I picked up a page. It was from The Weight of Silence. I recognized it immediately, but the paragraphs were wrong. The words were familiar, but the phrasing was off. It was as if someone had rewrote my own writing.

My first instinct was to call my publisher and ask if she sent anyone over. I pulled out my phone and dialed, but it went straight to voicemail. Of course it did. It was late evening on Saturday, long after work hours. I would not have answered either

I tried to text Dana. Maybe she would come. She was the only other person I spoke to, but I never got the chance. As I was frantically typing the message, I received one from an unknown number: “You still do not know how to end things.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I dropped my phone out of fear. That is when I was hit with the smell of burning paper and saw smoke curling out from the bedroom door. I opened the door only to see my laptop on the bed red hot with paper all around it. The flames were already climbing the walls. There was a liquid on the floor and the smell of gasoline was overpowering. I tried to get out, but the fire spread too fast. It was too hot.

I moved down the hall to the front door. I grabbed the hot handle burning my hand to blisters. It wouldn’t open. Panicking, I crawled towards the window. I had to get out of here. I coughed. I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred, but I swore that I saw a burning page float in front of me. On the page written in my handwriting were the words: “The story doesn’t end here.”

I collapsed near the window, unable to move anymore. I swore that I heard a faint voice say, “you left us unfinished.”

I laid against the wall watching my legacy burn to ash. Things were going dark. I could barely keep my eyes open. I watched the flames dance.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t finish.”

Everything went black.