The Choken

My breathing is still hard as I grip the paper in my hands, my written words still glaring at me on it. The storm outside stills, the hail turning into rain, and that in turn stills the rage inside of me. I sigh, rub my face, and resign myself to clean up the mess of book around me.

"Might as well create a new sorting system..." I mutter as I squat down to pick up the nearest book. I start creating piles of books for a few minutes, the rain outside settling into a soft drizzle. The building around me groans and cracks, the sounds of old wood comforting me somewhat.

Then, the door opens slowly, creaking. I turn around, expecting to see a patron, and am greeted by the sight of the same old man from before.

"Hi...?" I say, hesitantly, as the balding old man stares at me with glassy eyes. He opens his mouth again, and it sounds like someone tearing an old book apart, slow at first, then faster, sharper. By then, I become sure I wasn't hallucinating when he came by earlier.

The old man takes a step into the building, as if testing if he even can. Then another. And another. Bu the fourth one, he is almost screaming that ripping sound, making it rattle inside my ribcage as a beat drop would in a club.

A beat drop was way more pleasant than this, though.

"Sir... I have to kindly ask you to leave." I say, my trembling voice not being able to break through the sound the old man is making.

However, it seems like the words had some effect on the guy, because the sound suddenly stopped. I let out a shaky breath, my hands shivering by my side, thinking he would finally leave, when I see his face start to rip like old paper.

For a moment, everything freezes. I can see deep in his eyes, through my shock, that whatever he is... It is... It's not human anymore.

Then, like a fast forward in an old cassette player, the creature in front of me rips itself into thin, long strips of what seems like paper, clawing at its own face. At what once was a living person's face, now a mess of old paper and... Deep, black ink..

I try to take a step back, but my body is frozen in place while my mind is screaming at me to do something, anything, just... Move. However, I can't move an inch, my stomach churning and my breathing getting quicker and quicker.

The creature in front of me then turns into a spiraling mass of thin strips of paper and something akin to black matter, spinning like a whirlwind with claws. Then it roars, and the sound is a thousand voices, scribbling pens, and the last choking gasps of people I've never met, slamming into me like a wall.

I can barely breathe again, still reeling from the scream, when suddenly its paper arm lashes out towards me with a speed I've only ever seen in movies. It's a blur of white and black, and before I can even think to dodge, it slams into my chest.

The air is punched out of me in one brutal instant. My body folds around the blow, my feet lifting off the ground before I'm thrown backwards into an almost empty shelf. The wood gives with a sharp crack, splitting down the middle, and the few books it held tumble onto me in a slow, ridiculous rain.

I don't even have time to laugh at the absurdity. The pain is sharp, blooming from my ribs and spreading with every gasp I try to take. My hands scrabble weakly at the floor, nails catching on splinters. Something clicks in my mind, clear and cold as ice: That hurt. This... This is real.

I drop to all fours, coughing, the creature's next scream vibrating through my bones. My head rings, vision tilting sideways for a moment. A few drops of blood--my blood--slide down my chin and drip onto the floor, vanishing into the cracks of the wood as if the library itself is drinking me in. The smell of it mixes with old dust and wet paper, thick and suffocating.

"Fuck..." I mutter, the word rasping in my throat. My voice sounds smaller than I expected.

The creature's footsteps--no, not footsteps, just the sound of paper dragging--grow louder, closer. My limbs feel like lead, but survival finally kicks in, and I throw myself sideways just as it charges again. The rush of wind from its movement brushes my cheek. If I'd been a second slower, I'd have been skewered.

It stops just short of hitting the cracked shelf, twists in an impossible angle, and screams again. The choking sounds rise in pitch, jagged and wet, as its arm unfolds like a map being torn open. The paper strips snake towards me with that awful flap-flap-flap of turning pages, and then they're wrapping around my forearm.

The black ink seeps instantly into my skin, burning like acid and smelling faintly of iron and mold. I scream, the sound breaking halfway through, and yank back, but the grip is impossibly strong. My knees nearly give out.

And then... A flash.

The brightness is so sudden it blinds me. The smell of grass. The sound of children laughing. A summer breeze across my face. For a heartbeat, I'm standing in a sunlit field, my shadow stretching over waving flowers. I almost take a step forward.

But then the vision shatters, ripped away like a page from a book. I'm back in the library. My arm is free, but it's raw and blistered, the marks blackened where the paper and ink touched me.

This time, I don't think.

I run.

I run through the shelves, scrambling for something, anything, that can help me survive this. My lungs burn, each breath tasting of dust and old glue, but the vision it forced on me still rattles inside my head like a loose gear.

The second I falter, just one misstep, it's on me again. This time the paper snakes slip low, fast, and cold, curling under the hem of my pants and wrapping tight around my ankle. The sudden pull yanks my feet out from under me, and I slam forward onto the floor. My teeth clack together, the taste of copper bursting across my tongue.

The burning hits instantly, acid fire searing my skin. I scream, kicking wildly, but the grip only tightens. And then, just like before, reality fractures. Rain taps softly on a window. I'm inside a small cottage, dim light flickering from a fire chewing on old wood. The smell is warm, smoky, almost comforting, until I see her. An elderly woman in a worn shawl sits in a chair, her thin shoulders shaking with a cough. I can feel she is someone important to me, someone I love dearly, even if I - Aya - never saw her before in my life. She presses a napkin to her mouth, and when she pulls it away, it's not blood that stains the fabric. It's thick, black ink.

I blink, back at the library, and hear the sound of dragging paper getting closer and closer. My stomach drops. I twist around, shoving myself up on my elbows, and see it closing the distance. The scream it lets out rattles the shelves, makes the overhead lights flicker.

Desperation makes me grab the nearest pile of books, hurling them one after another, my hands barely keeping up with my panic, trying to at least slow it down. The hard covers and crumpled pages smack into its spiraling form, and for a heartbeat, I think I've done it. I see the paper strips tear, edges curling, some of the books tangling themselves in its body like anchors. I grin as I manage to hurt it, just for this grin turn into a horrified expression as the strips of paper start to reform as if nothing had happened.

Suddenly the creature grabs my coat, pulling me closer and closer to it, my feet scraping uselessly against the floor. Each time I try to break free, a new vision slams into my mind. Blinding flashes, like photographs burning from the edges inward.

A young adult in a sunlit church, vows trembling in their voice.

A newborn's fragile cry.

A coffin, shut tight, smelling faintly of lilies.

Fields stretching to the horizon, brittle and yellow, the air rippling with heat.

The images crush the air out of me. My body jerks with every pulse of them, my willpower splintering.

I can feel the paper searching. The thin tentacles sliding into every crease of my coat, brushing my neck, probing for any opening, any vulnerable place it can reach. It makes my skin crawls. Panic makes my fingers claw at the strips, ripping away one after another, the dry sound of tearing pages mixing with my own ragged breaths. Then, I see it reach for the old diary page I ripped, with my bold words "Bring it on" written on it.

Something in me snaps.

"No you won't!" The words rip out of my throat more like a growl than speech. I wrench the page free, my hand white-knuckled around it, and slam my boot into the slick black matter threading through the creature's paper form.

It shrieks, a layered, grating sound of choking and ripping, so loud my eardrums throb. But it loosens its grip, just enough for me to stumble backward and crash onto the wall, gasping.

As I reach for anything to hold on, a candlestick breaks off and fall into a pile of books. They immediately burst into flames, and for a second, the blaze sears my vision white - a second I couldn't loose.

Just as I think that the creature is going to charge again, and that this is it for me (again!), I hear a screech. The choked voices get louder, the ripping pages sound coming back, as I see the creature desperately trying to put out a small flame in one of its tentacles, hitting it aimlessly at whatever it can find.

The first thing I think is 'Who in their right mind lights a library with open flames?'.

The second is 'I could kiss them'.

I hold the candlestick tighter, its metal hot but bearable, using the light as my weapon. The creature in front of me finally rips its own paper, taking off the burning part, before looking back at me. The voices rise to a deafening pitch in my head; they're not my memories - they're theirs. But I shove the noise down. I'm not prey anymore. Now, I could hit back just as hard as it hit me.

It lunges again, and I turn, moving my body not only to dodge, but to tangle the candlestick in its paper. It screams, the sound of ripping pages getting louder, and pulls away. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and I think I can see confusion in the way it moves. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face: wild, blood dripping down my temple, muscles screaming, skin raw from burns. 'Yeah', I think. 'Be confused. I can fight back now.'

Then, I see the black matter inside of it recoiling, the papers fluttering around getting into a single ball of barely contained rage. I prepare myself too, wrapping the few loose pieces of paper it left behind around my candlestick so I have more fire coverage - it's all or nothing now. And, as they did say back in my world, the winner does take it all.

It lunges at me, the paper tentacles making a gaping maw that wants to drag me in, chew me, and spit it out. Little does it knows that my old world already did it to me, and I wasn't about to let happen again.

I spear it with the flaming point of my candlestick, right in the eye of the paper hurricane around me, but, for a second, nothing happens.

The world stops.

The flame in my hands flickers, almost dying out.

The choked voices around me stop, a brief second of numbing, absolute silence.

Then, everything bursts into flames. The papers around me, which previously attacked me, now burned so quick only ashes feel on my skin. The ripping paper sound explodes around me, ringing in my ears and leaving me dizzy.

The Choken in front of me finally dies, and I faintly hear in the wind of it disappearing the voice of an old man.

"Thank you."

I stand there for a second, holding the ruined candlestick, before collapsing and falling on my knees. The floor of the building absorbs the ashes around me, and the blood that still drips from my face, but it doesn't seem menacing. Instead, knowing the Library is there gives me an odd sense of comfort.

"That's a Choken then." I murmur to myself, wiping the blood from my face with my sleeve, and hissing when it touches the spiral burns in my skin. "Hell of a thing... And I was supposed to turn into that?"

Only the groaning of the building and the creaking of the swinging open front door answers me. I get up slowly, groaning, and limp to the door, closing it. I am alive this time, alive and victorious, but I knew it was only because I got lucky. Honestly, I’m as surprised as anyone.

However, I can't help but feel the rush of knowing I bested whatever was against me again.