tamingthemuse | Hopelessly Devoted To You

Title: Hopelessly Devoted To You
Author:

spikespetslayer
Fandom: None
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: When I stepped into those hallowed halls, I knew that I had found my home.

Author's Note: As

swweeks pointed out last week, I share a lot of myself on here--this story is no different. I find that it's easiest to write what I know, and who do I know better than myself and those around me? Just as interesting, I wonder if her suggestion would be a fitting challenge for the members of this community? I quote--"Perhaps we should have a one-week autobiographical challenge?"

Something to think about--until then...

Hopelessly Devoted To You

I can remember the first time that I entered the hallowed halls of what would become my temple, my shrine, and my escape from the world that I knew and the life that I avoided.

My first impression was the cool breeze that flowed over my skin, instantly drying the summer sweat from my walk and chilling me to the core. I shivered and rubbed my bare arms with my hands, teeth chattering as I tried ineffectively to warm myself with fleshly friction.

It was only when my clicking teeth quieted that the silence descended upon me. It was deep and penetrating; I dared not breathe, afraid that even the simple act of inhaling and exhaling would disturb the peace that pervaded these walls. On tiptoe, I crept down forbidding stairs to the spot designated for such as I was then, conscious of every click of my shoes on the spotless staircase as I entered the brightly lit room below.

The scents began to drift into my nostrils, odors that would remind me repeatedly throughout my life of this wonderful world that I had stumbled into. Paper, ink, glue and musty fabric assaulted me with their heady aromas and I drank them in, quenching my thirst before I plunged headlong into what would become a lifelong obsession, a fascination that wouldn’t diminish with time nor age.

From the moment that I set foot inside to the day that I left my hometown, the library became more my church than the one we visited each Sunday.

It was large and overwhelming for a five-year-old child. Looking back, I can see that it wasn’t the grand cathedral that I perceived it to be on that first visit, but it never seemed to diminish in my eyes. I spoke with the children’s librarian, a kindly old woman with bemused blue eyes hidden behind cats-eye glasses when she saw the awe that must have been clearly written across my face. She directed me to the fiction section and I fell immediately in love.

My fingers traveled along the spines of the books, head tilted to read the titles as I walked as silently as possible. There was no need to remind me of the rules; I doubt that any sound could have come out of my mouth at the vast expanse of books at my fingertips. I picked out five books that first visit, bringing them proudly to the desk to check them out.

My heart fell to my feet when I was told I couldn’t. It immediately rose, buoyant with hope and glee when I was informed of the process of procuring the prize of a library card of my own.

Forgetting to be quiet, my feet slapped up the stairs as I ran from the library all the way to my house. With my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, I presented the signature card to my mother and begged in my most pitiful voice for her to sign it so I could run back up and get my books.

I didn’t notice her frown until it was too late. Chastised for crossing ‘the big road’ without permission, I was forced to wait until the next day to return to get the books the librarian held for me.

Oh, the things that I learned in those hallowed halls! I visited places unknown and unseen—Narnia, Mars, Middle-Earth. I read of historic battles, devoured books on famous people, embroiled myself in the mythology of every known culture of the world. By the time I was ten years old, I had read every book in the children’s section, some of them two or three times over.

Thus began my love of the written word. She became my mistress and tormentor, drawing breath from my very soul. Many a night did I hide under blankets with a flashlight, determined to finish a chapter or read ‘just a few more words’. I was literature’s slave, its devotee, worshipping freely at her shrine.

With every year, there were new gardens to explore, new planets to be mapped, and new stories to read until they were nearly committed to memory. Still, even now, I can remember the names of the first five books that I checked out and recite them on command. They helped me escape into a world that was better than the one that I lived in, where children were cherished and anything was possible. They molded me in ways that I still cannot describe to this day, simply because they made me see the wonder in life instead of pain.

They became my escape, one that I still indulge in today. My escape, my dream, and my life.