Carolyn
closed her book and sighed. She’d finally read her way through though all 18
books by her favorite author, Matilda Pepperstance. Carolyn arched her neck
toward the cavernous ceiling of the public library and rotated her head round,
back and forth. She rubbed her eyes and took another deep breath. She felt
tired but extremely relieved to have made her way through Matilda Pepperstance’s
weaving, layered and sometimes convoluted storytelling to the final ending in
which the main character, Julius Craven, discovered that he was never an
ageless Magi, but was really just a seven-year-old boy in a hospital imagining
a magical life.
Carolyn
had started the whole series of books in college after getting dumped by Roger
and she needed something to distract herself from re-living their 11 year long relationship.
A story-line filled with fantasy and adventure and a little mushiness was just
what she needed. She didn’t know at that
time it would turn into a lifelong obsession, conventions, book signings,
cos-play, and even permeate its way into her bedroom and sex life. Yet now, it was done.
Matilda
Pepperstance had died two years ago after the completion of the last book, so
there were no more Julius Craven stories to come, ever. Which now seemed okay
since discovering that her sexual fantasies regarding Julius were actually the imaginings
of a seven-year-old sick child in a hospital. In fact, the more she thought
about it, the more she felt slightly betrayed by Matilda Pepperstance and her
perhaps strange desire to let her readers down with such a moronic ending. “A
sick kid imagined he was Julius!?” thought Carolyn.
Carolyn
looked down at the finished book on the long library table. She felt warm. She
felt like she might be sweating. The library was cool and quiet, sparsely
populated by old men at the periodicals and a small table of worn out mothers
near the kid’s reading room. Carolyn felt angry. She felt betrayed. She felt
that the last four years of her life, so devoted to these books was now suddenly
a waste. A complete waste. She pushed the
thick book to the other end of the long library table with disgust.
“Matilda Pepperstance,” said Carolyn,
“that bitch!”
The librarian looked up from her
computer instinctively, to shush Carolyn. Carolyn gave the middle-aged librarian
a dirty look and stood up from her chair. She pushed it angrily in and grabbed
her jacket from the back of it. She looped her purse strap around her shoulder
and stormed toward the exit. She threw open the large library doors and looked
up at the blue springtime sky. She squinted against the afternoon sun as she
started to walk toward her car. She remembered feeling so happy when she first
arrived to the library. She felt like she would finally have the peace and
quiet she needed to finish this last book. She felt like a fool now.
She opened her car door and threw
her purse and jacket into the passenger seat. She sat behind the steering wheel
and slammed the driver’s side door. She sat for a moment remembering how Roger
told her that he was seeing someone else, someone sexier and better looking and
touched him in the way that he wanted to be satisfied and how she could never
be that for him. She remembered staring at him, not crying, not feeling
anything but contempt for all the things she had done for him. She remembered
seeing Matilda Pepperstance’s first book on the shelf next to where Roger was
standing as he delivered his selfish news. The book, The Resistance of Mercy,
was what Carolyn focused on. It was what she poured her rage, compassion and
love into since feeling so abandoned by Roger.
She felt that same abandonment now
as she sat in her car. Roger, the car
salesman, the cheap whiskey and casual cocaine user, the sadist and unrepentant
selfish asshole. She missed him. She hated him. She hated she wasted so much of
her time with Matilda Pepperstance’s stupid books, stories and generally bad
writing.
She started to cry. She felt the
hot tears of rage, sadness, and wasted time streaming down her cheeks. She
started her car and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. She tossed her
head back, banging it against the headrest. She grit her teeth and let out a
silent scream, part fury and part exhaustion.
Her tears, running down her cheeks, felt
right. She felt like this cry was perhaps right somehow, like it was the eulogy
she needed for the last four years of her life. It felt cathartic. She felt her
rage and self-delusion start to slip away. She took a deep breath.
Carolyn caught a glimpse of herself
in the rear-view. She burst out in a short laugh at herself. She wiped her cheeks
and looked around the parking lot. She put the car in reverse and backed out of
her parking space. She put the car in drive and left the library parking lot.
She turned on the radio. Tom Petty came on, singing about not backing down.
“Screw Matilda, screw Julius, Screw
Roger,” she said.
She hit the accelerator and drove West.
