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Tell My Story Through Words

She opened up the book, page 256, and wrote. Yes, it was vandalism (and even worse considering she was a librarian) but no one would know. Or at least she suspected no one would know. Nowadays who reads Wuthering Heights when they could read 50 Shades Of Grey?

'This is my story,' she wrote, quickly, so her boss wouldn't come in and interrupt her, 'and it begins with a mute little baby being born. She was a sweet child but she didn't have any friends at school. She couldn't talk. She couldn't gossip about teachers and boys and she couldn't answer questions in class.'

She chewed on her pencil. What else was there to say? Oh, so much. So much. But she didn't have much time left in her lunch break.

'She enjoyed English. She loved books. And here she was, aged twenty-something, in a library. Mind you, if her employer found out she had done this then she probably wouldn't be working at that library anymore.'

She laughed to herself silently. She checked her watch; five more minutes.

'Why is she writing this?' she wrote, 'Well, because that's the only way people will see her, unabridged, even, a blank canvas. Perhaps it's the only way she can start again. Perhaps you might be reading this right now, and you might think to call her. Except she's not going to leave a phone number, because then everyone will know who it was.'

She shut the book and tucked her pen into her pocket. She'd have to slot it back onto the shelf when no one was looking.

She had found her voice.

Story by:

Florence Molly

18 October 2012

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