I closed the book. The hard black cover made a satisfying sound as it struck the soft white pages. Satisfying, yet painfully final.
This book was home to a world I’d tried to reject for so long, and yet now I was captivated by every word. “Page Turner” is an understatement for this series.
I hadn’t wanted to read them, especially since they were grossly popular, and I hated to do anything that could be considered normal or mainstream. It’s not that I deliberately tried to reject all things popular and normal, in fact it was all things normal and popular which seemed to reject me. My aversion was merely an ingrained response, I guess.
Still, I felt a twinge of sadness, even loss as I closed the novel. I knew I could so easily lose myself in these pages in my every hour of consciousness, but I also knew how futile that would be. There was life outside the sharp boundaries of paper.
But what did life have to offer me now? My sadness turned to fury in an instant, as I realized how empty my life suddenly seemed now that the black hardcover stared at me, coldly. Taunting me. You know it’ll never be like this for you. You know you’ll never find him. He’s just a character.
Love like that doesn’t exist in real life.
I wasn’t convinced, and that was the problem.
What was I supposed to do with these feelings? Writing the novels in first person was a brilliant ploy to capture the obsessions of each reader, tormenting her. I found so much of myself in the main character, and, I was convinced, more so than all of the other million readers. It was hard not to relate.
This was more than relation. This was clear connection, so evilly planted in every paragraph. When he looked at her, MY heart pumped violently. When he left her, MY heart ripped itself cleanly out of my chest. It was powerful, and thrilling…until the book was closed.
It’s not like I couldn’t open it again. It’s not as if I couldn’t revive those feelings within myself by returning to page 113 of the second book. Within myself.
Because ultimately, there was nothing in my life but the words within this book that could give life to feelings like those. There was nothing in my life right now.
I felt loved and beautiful in book one. The way he touched her sent familiar tingles through every inch of my skin. When he kissed her, my heart stuttered. I felt his cool comfort as his arms surrounded her. As she witnessed the brilliance of his skin in the sunlight, I felt the wonder of the thought that he was mine.
That’s what started this whole mess.
I didn’t live in a dreary small town on the edge of oblivion. I didn’t go to high school with mythical creatures; in fact I graduated from high school 7 years earlier than this. I had already gone beyond the age that she ever will, and yet I felt that what she was, I was. What she had should be mine.
I was kind to myself by saying “should be”. If I said he “was” mine, I would only have opened the wound in my chest further, exposing my vital organs to the stale air of reality. If he were mine, that would feel more like loss than longing.
I didn’t know which was worse.
I wasn’t alone. I lived with a man. He was gorgeous by many standards, and he somewhat resembled her secondary interest in the book, the wrong interest. He was very tall and lanky. He had copper skin and gorgeous dark hair. His eyes, almost a dark red, burned into me with compassion and deep love. There were days I felt so lucky to be so important to him.
He loved me with a passion untouchable by the average man.
But he wasn’t him.
It never felt like it did when he looked at her. It never nearly tore my heart open and let me bleed exquisitely when he kissed me. It never hurt my hands when he touched my skin.
The sadness once again replaced my anger. It took me over in a powerfully confusing wave that washed over my skin like icy salt water. And I let this current take me.
The book was closed, the cover black and stationary, but the book still captured my undivided attention. I stared. Had anyone been watching me, I might have been embarrassed at the idea of staring down a black canvas, nearly catatonic with thought. But there was no one near me. Luckily.
I couldn’t have fathomed that this would even be a decision I had to make. What kind of decision is it, to choose between fiction and reality? What kind of choice is it, when fiction offers impossible bliss and reality offers absolute disappointment? How could I justify staying with reality, when I knew I would never love him like I loved him? That he would never love me the way he loved her. Is it worth the sacrifice to hope that he was real?
This was silly, I was completely aware of that.
The anger returned, like a mask that covered my tears with the blood red color of fury.
“How could you do this to me?” I screamed at the book. (Okay, now I was a little embarrassed, even with no one watching me). How could you write something so perfect and dark that sunlight would never feel good again? How could you describe someone so beautiful that the world outside turned an ugly shade of green when my eyes tore away from the pages? How could you show me a love I’ll never have?
How could I live with a man, when I now secretly wished he was a monster, beautiful and intense? How could I bear to touch him when his heat made me feel so disappointed, when his embrace didn’t cause an earthquake in my chest? How could I listen to his ordinary voice, when I longed to hear the velvet melody you so fluidly described?
I thought all was lost. Everything felt finished, like I would have to place these pages where a “love life” fit into my life.
I stared at the book, on the verge of tears.
After what seemed like a day, I blinked. I came to. It felt odd, even hopeless at first, as I resolved to return to my life as it was. I knew I couldn’t forget him, but I knew I could let go. I was strong enough.
I blinked again. I didn’t have to.
I picked up the most dangerous book I owned, book one of a series I never should have read. I tucked it under my arm, grabbed my keys, and walked down stairs.
It was raining, pouring actually. Perfect.
I could barely see the lights reflecting on the street in front of my car. The music was low on the radio and drowned out by the violence of the water hitting my windshield. I wasn’t listening anyway.
I barely saw the Wal-Mart sign on the right, but I would have turned out of habit anyway. I parked, covered the book with my jacket, and caught a breath.
He was surprised to see me, early, standing under the overhang while the sky erupted above me. All he could see, through the dim lights behind the glass, was me. Me, soaked through to my skin, holding my jacket in front of me. Me, pulling something black out of my jacket. Me, standing desperately in the rain, tears streaming down my pale cheeks, yet smiling. Me, holding a black book against the glass.
To the author: Was it worth writing this torturous series to know that you saved the love of two simple, ordinary people?
