Number 24

3rd in the 'Spread The Word 2017' competition

The weather turned cold like it always did. People in scarves and hats invaded the sidewalks as the nights got longer and the air, brisker. A gentle rain blurred my vision as each droplet clung to my eyelashes before bouncing onto the pavement. The crisp air formed an insatiable barrier between bodies. Hugging the cardboard box close to my chest I signalled the taxi. My hands were raw; red and shaking ferociously from the cold. Gloves. I should have remembered gloves.
Warmth flooded through me as I climbed carefully into the cab. From the rear view mirror the Cabbie looked at me, his sallow skin and skeletal frame permanently indented within the upholstery. ‘Where to, Miss’? He questioned, an air of boredom in his voice.
Firmly gripping the box on my lap I shifted my weight underneath me. “Number 24. The brownstone”.
I pressed my head against the chilled glass window as the rain continued to bullet down. Liquid crystals fell delicately onto the glass.
Each storefront passed in a blur. The small raindrops pelting on the glass only added to the kaleidoscope of light and colour pervading my vision. Blissful decorations smothered each storefront and adverts were plastered to each window; inviting them to tug on the hands of their lawful mothers who were desperate not to upset the little tykes.
I looked down at my lap, the contents of the box unkempt and unordered. A jungle of words, each imprisoned within its own binding. I smoothed my thumb over the cover of the first book, feeling the slight indent of the gold embroidered words that were embedded pompously within the spine.
The vehicle stopped. My thoughts became severed as the tyres scraped along asphalt. Balancing the box in one arm I thanked him and wrenched open the door, trading warmth for the numbing downpour. Squinting through the rain I could make out the dull light emitted by the brownstone. Dark, cold and towering it made its presence known to all within sight. I walked from the kerb up the stone paved steps, before knocking on the large wooden door. Its vibrant red paint was flaking from years of abandonment.
No one answered. I knelt to look through the brass mail slot; the stairwell was empty. All but a single bulb glowed weakly from the ceiling. I dropped the box aimlessly at the doorstep. Good riddance. I no longer cared if the books perished in this dreadful rain.
It hailed upon them without mercy.
The chilling droplets of rain weighed my eyelashes as the first page deteriorated into nothingness. Words bleeding endlessly into the water.
The book in its entirety. Dying.
I could not let them go.
I did not let them go.
Hastily I pulled each volume from its deathbed, holding tightly to the soaked cardboard box that weakened under my fingertips. Rushing from the paved steps I signalled for a taxi once again. The frigid street was cold, desolate and the rain continued ruthlessly.
Damn these wretched books.

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