Violet of Dougerthy

Violet plugged her earphones into the hot pink phone socket, completely enamored by the tiny cricket chirping by the windowsill. She played with a white sachet in one hand while gently petting the cricket with the other. The library stirred in silence, desolate without a trace of human presence except the girl. As the grandfather's clock in the corner struck 12 o’clock with a resonant bang, her dedication to the cricket was abruptly disrupted. She carefully smoothed her cardigan and walked over to the book stack.

Violet was a young 22, yet she ran the only library in Dougerthy, Texas. Inherited from her grandmother, the vintage library stood alone on the south side of the quaint town. Her parents passed away early on, and her grandmother also died only last year. The library was all Violet had left of her family. Her pet cricket and the grandfather clock by the library front were her only companions. Beyond that, the elementary kids who finished their school work on the oakwood desks and the high school students who sipped boba and whispered the latest gossip filled her mundane life. 

Violet finished shuffling the books by genre and began to tug the cart across various aisles in the library before finally stopping at the science fiction section. Carefully, she dusted the shelf and reached for the books, only to touch cold metal. Bewildered, she swiveled back on her heels only to be met with an empty metal cart. The cold tang of the cart stoked her tired mind. The grandfather clock struck 12 o’clock again, coinciding with the cricket on the windowsill's apprehensive chirps. 

Violet rubbed her undereye wrinkles and walked back towards her desk, grumbling about her lack of an evening caffeine dose.  She sniffled and paused as her nostrils filled with a metallic, bitter scent emanating from her pale lips. 

Violet, back at her desk, checked the book stack, confusion etched on her weary features. She paced to the storeroom before abandoning her mission and returned to check the stack again. The girl organized another set of books and pushed her cart to the horror shelf, this time watching them closely. Yet when she turned, she found herself meeting empty air. All of the horror books on the shelf vanished. 

Violet felt her head grow dizzy with dismay and nausea. Yet, she nodded and sternly told herself, “Life is illusionary. Shelves have their own minds. Can’t I respect that?” At her words, the cricket crawled, barely alive, towards the white power sachet in the center of the oakwood table. The grandfather clock, for the 3rd time in the night, struck 12  o’clock.

Violet, hunching from back pain, walked past rows of bookshelves. They were stacked to the ceiling with emptiness; not a single trace of even a page or a dewdrop of ink was visible. Yet, only the ringing of the clock and the dying chirps of the cricket doused in white powdery dust were crisp in Violet’s mind.

Violet reached for the desk and sat down, tired, her fingers trembling with desire. She reached for the white powder sachet, but instead touched the smooth surface of a deep, oceanic hardcover book. A pair of googly eyes on the cover squinted at Violet. She focused her watering eyes back at the cover but was unable to decipher the title. 

Violet once again tried to hold her body up, and for a second, she thought she saw a flash of concrete and buzzing shops in front of her. “Life is limitless. It's showing me an alternate reality,” she mumbled, eyes swiveling in disorganized patterns. Finally, the clock with all of its might struck the last hour of the day, ringing a sturdy 13th hour and bringing an end to the girl’s consciousness. With each ding, another tremor ran through Violet. The cricket watched the girl's body twitch and convulse on the floor before finally vanishing simultaneously with the book on the tabletop. The cricket then slowly stumbled away before exhaling its last breath next to the questionable white powder streaks. Its death marked an end to Violet’s vitality.

A group of people rushed over to the old lady whose body was twitching miserably on the pavement. The old lady gripped a sachet of white powder in one hand, and on the other held a release form from the nearby psychiatric hospital. If one listened closely, they would hear her thinning heartbeat sound, “I’m Violet, a 22-year-old who runs a library in Dougerthy.”