Read The Library of Borrowed Lives — Part 1 and Part 2.
It was blank.
Both facing pages were completely blank. Nerves burning a hole in the pit of my stomach, I knelt and tentatively flipped to another. Still blank. I quickly thumbed through the entire second half – not a single word, symbol, or picture printed in the book.
Hearing footsteps behind me, I rose and slid the book into its rightful place on the shelf. An overseer cleared their throat, and I turned to face them. Crossed arms and a fierce scowl sent me scuttling back to the front of the library with my empty cart to collect another load. My questions would have to wait. I was too closely watched. Even when the overseers were out of sight, there was always a chance that one of the permanents, those stone-faced workers who’d earned a longer stay, would see and report.
That evening, as I crawled into my bunk, I noted the empty bunk three rows down from mine. Another temporary whose assignment abruptly ended, and with it, my chances of seeing what was behind that door, because that night everything changed.
We were expected to relieve ourselves before we climbed into our bunks, but invariably, there would be one straggler who had dawdled at their supper or some fool who gulped down too much water when it was their turn at the ladle. We all dreaded having to go at night, to make our way by feel down the long corridor and out the door, shuffling across the gravel to get to the outhouse. The overseers left us no lights at night, but at least if there was a moon, it was easier once you got outside. I was never so careless, but this night the blank pages consumed my thoughts, and I forgot to make my visit before the lights went out.
I held it as long as possible, but it was no use. Out through the dark I had to go. The outhouse was in the middle of an octagonal courtyard, the only outdoor space we knew during our assignment. It was surrounded on seven sides by the various wings of the library, through which we cycled one per day of the week. It was essential, I surmised, to keep us lowly workers thoroughly separate from whoever was signing out the books we endlessly shelved but didn’t know how to read.
The eighth wing – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven – yes, eight. The eighth side of the courtyard too was walled in, but what that part of the structure contained, I’d never really questioned before.
I was relieved to find a smiling sliver of moon casting shadows. At least I could see my way back to the door. I’d done my business and was dragging my weary bones towards the stone stairwell that descended to the underground workers’ barracks when I felt something soft and warm cover my mouth. Someone hissed “Shhh” in my ear, dragging me backward into the shadows with surprising strength.
Concealed in a dark, musty corner, the hooded figure released me and raised a finger to her lips.
Come back on the first Tuesday in July to read the next instalment of this new dystopian series: The Library of Borrowed Lives
Aly Writes 
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