Story Based on a Song

based on "World Spins Madly On" by the Weepies

Another day comes to be. I’m still lying here awake, as I have been for countless hours, hours that become days. I roll over, glaring at the old alarm clock. It blinks at me, minute after minute. Blink, blink, 6:09. Blink, blink, 6:10. Blink, blink, 7:03. I rise, and slink to the bathroom. I stare at my reflection, red-eyed and weary. My head is throbbing, blurring everything a bit. I rub my eyes, trying to clear my world. The dark circles under my eyes serve to identify me; anyone can look at me and know that I’m not part of their happy daytime world.

I suppose this insomnia is a welcome change from the old days. In those days I’d spend the day with you after you got out of work, that dreary little office. But you’re gone now, and the stars just don’t look the same when I’m not looking at them with you, on the top of a building, through that locked door whose keys I was entrusted with.

Do you even remember me? You must. You must remember those nights, where we pulled each other closer for comfort as the chilly Cambridge wind bit at our limbs, sending shivers down my spine.

Did you shiver, too?

I wonder where you are now. I regret the promises I broke, and the parts I missed when my eyes blinked shut for just a second too long. I was to remember it all, I really do. But those inevitable moments come where I must blink, or worse, sleep. I wonder if you ever regret missing things. I wonder if you ever understood that as you stand on this earth calmly, unmoving, it really does move at a thousand miles an hour for me. It hurtles around the sun, spinning and turning and somewhere, it left me behind.

The hours are seconds now. Before I know it, the earth has rotated me away from the sun, and those stars are screaming at me, reminding me of what I’ve been, what I’ve lost. They remind me of you as they twinkle, pretending to be tranquil. Do you know what stars are? They’re enormous burning balls of gas, and tonight, they cannot deceive me with their sparkling show.

I don’t try to sleep. I won’t lie and say I do. I lay awake, content in this choice to keep myself from that void. There’s a problem tonight, however. My phone won’t stop ringing. I thought I had cancelled my service, but apparently my phone wants to keep tormenting me, and thwarting my attempts to close myself off, just without caller I.D.

I suddenly leap up, the momentum of my jump tossing my blanket across the room. I pull on boots and my coat, adding a hat at the last minute. I grab my wallet, just in case, thrusting it into my pocket. I dash out the door, some unknown force carrying me somewhere that perhaps I’ll want to be. I walk down the street, my brisk pace kicking up slush from the sidewalk. My quick, long steps soon bring me to a dingy sort of place. Impulsively, I enter.

I stand there, shivering with cold. I’m in a room, covered from ceiling to floor with books. There’s a carpet clinging to the ancient wooden floor, and the shelves look as if they’ve grown into the walls and fused to the floor. I apprehensively walk into the room, scanning the walls with wonder. The books are all a bit battered, but they have a friendly feeling as well, like they’ve been waiting for me. I pull one down from the shelf. Alice in Wonderland. I gently flip through the pages, studying the illustrations. I gasp at their detail and beauty.

“Hello.”

I jump, ripping the illustration accidentally. I look over at the woman standing there. It’s impossible to tell her age, but she must be over sixty.

“I… I… Sorry!” I gasp.

“Don’t fret. Nothing is permanent, dear,” she says, taking a roll of tape from the pocket of her apron. There seem to be other bookbinding supplies in the pockets.

She tapes the book carefully, holding it like a baby. She hands it to me.

I bite my lip, assuming this to be a “you break it, you buy it” situation.

She reads my expression and laughs a soft, airy laugh, the laugh of a woman years younger.

“No, no. It’s a gift.”

“But why?” I ask.

Why would this woman want to give me a book after I barge into her shop at… I check the time on the clock by a desk in the corner… midnight? After I rip the book, and probably wake her?

“You need some guidance. You need something to do. You need a friend. Books are the best kind, you know.”

I look up at her, incredulous. Books could never replace you.

“Oh, but they are,” she says, smiling, seemingly reading my mind.

I thank her, puzzled, and exit the shop, in a daze of sorts. I find my way back to my home, and curl up in bed.

I open Alice in Wonderland, looking for the ripped page. I flip through the entire book, and it’s nowhere to be seen. In fact, there is nothing in the book. It’s blank. The back cover is scribbled on in a deep purple ink. The flowing script rearranges itself into something intelligible, and I read,

“Dear Sam, I have a feeling that this will help you. All you need is a pen and your mind, and the world will clear itself to you. If you need another, I’ll be waiting. All the best, Sonia.”

My heart pounds. How did she know my name? I push the thought aside, and begin writing, for some reason. The pen rips itself across the paper, and I have no idea what I am writing. It flows out of me, causing some comfort. Before I know it, it’s morning again, and a feeling crawls up inside of me. Believe it or not, I enjoyed those stars.