The Book
Don't judge a book by its cover.
"Stop!"
"Thief!"
The cries followed Noam as he ran down the slippery cobblestone street, but he paid them little notice. The sky was thick with dark storm clouds and the rain was growing steadily heavier, and he was not going to be caught, thanks to the storm. The book he had stolen just moments earlier was safely under his tunic. He knew nothing of the book or its contents, only that it had been so long since he'd had something decent to read. The wind blew dripping strands of dark hair into his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently, blinking rain out of his eyes as he went. It was harder to run away when you couldn't see. In a few minutes, he was a fair bit away from the bookshop, where there were no people wandering the streets, especially with the storm's intensity rapidly increasing. Noam ducked into his safe alcove where a blanket, an old lantern and a dry set of clothes were waiting. He sighed somewhat happily and removed the book from under his tunic.
It was only then that he got a proper look at the book. Its cover was of soft black leather with brass embellishments on the corners to hold it down properly. He reached out, stroked the leather once and then drew his hand away quickly- it felt too much like skin. The pages were worn and creamy and they had a distinct old quality. Noam dried his hands on the blanket, settled in against the brick and opened the cover. The first page held the title in perfect cursive, which Noam was too impatient to read... he flipped a few pages in- he found introductions to be boring- and read in the same neat script,
It was in the midst of a storm that he stole me. If I didn't know better, I'd say there was a tornado on the way. Very basic thievery, I must say- no one would be mad enough to chase after a boy in rain and wind such as that. He grabbed me and stuffed me under his shirt and ran from that bookshop. It was about time. I wonder when he'll notice.
Noam's forehead creased in frustration. He found this story boring already. He flipped to the back of the book, but found it blank. Pages kept turning backwards until Noam found himself reading the same passage he had just read. He yelled and threw the book away into the storm. What was the point of stealing something if it was of no use to you? For an instant, he considered retrieving the book to use as kindling, but decided that, like stealing the book in the first place, would not be worth it in the end. Noam wrapped himself in the thin wool blanket and sighed, letting the rhythmic pattering of the rain against the cobblestones drag him into sleep.
He did not sleep well that night. In the morning, he awoke to find he was sleeping on the skin-like leather book, looking like it had never been in the storm at all. Or had it? Noam didn't remember much from the night before. He moaned. He felt horrible, kind of achy and sick. Even with his living conditions and subpar diet, he didn't get sick very often. The sky was a depressing charcoal gray, which matched his mood exactly. He puffed and went to look for some breakfast.
But first, he had to take care of that book. It was starting to worry him. Now that he was really awake, he knew that he had definitely thrown away the book last night. But how had it found its way under his head? He stopped in the middle of the alley and opened the book. He felt a cold chill run up his spine as he saw there was another page filled with the neat script that was not there last night.
He tried to throw me away last night. I don't think he fully understands that I'm a part of his life until I so choose. I am very much looking forward to that day when I am not a part of him anymore. What amuses me most is that he thinks he is in control. But he is not the first, no, not the first, and he will definitely not be the last.
Noam ran down to the canal as fast as his worn out shoes could take him, tripping several times along the way. By the time he got there, he was panting, muddy and bruised, but he wasn't really paying much attention to himself so much as the sinister and eerie book. He wound up and launched the leather journal into the air, where it fell into the water with a satisfying splash. He grimaced and went to inspect what a cluster of pigeons were picking at. He hoped it was some crusty bread or a bruised fruit, which would make for an excellent breakfast. He jogged up to them, waving his arms and shouting. What he saw not only caused him to lose his appetite for any kind of food, but sent such a shock through his system that he stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open. It was the book. But- no. He had just thrown it away. Into the river, he had seen it fall, heard the splash.....
He stood up and brushed some of the drying mud off his clothes, although being clean was the least of his worries. Slowly, carefully, he picked up the book by the brass embellishments, trying not to touch the skin-leather of the cover as if it would burn him. For what may have been the first time in his young, relaxed life, Noam was seriously worried.
He tried to dispose of me again. When will he learn? In time, I suppose, but by then it will be too late...When should I dispose of the boy? His time is running out, certainly, but the question is when. And how. Soon he will no longer be of use to me.
The boy is starting to aggravate me. He attempted to burn me this morning and ruined his lantern while doing it. Silly boy. There is no more time for games. I think the river will be an appropriate place; I will dispose of him as he first tried to dispose of me.
A few days later found Noam trembling from hunger and lack of sleep; he had not dare let his guard down since that devil book had decided he was going to drown. But Noam couldn't tear himself away from it; no, he was glued to the beautiful script, reading it long after sunset with some candle stumps he had salvaged. He was flipping the pages looking for anything more in the perfect handwriting when he saw the light was fading fast, too fast. He scrambled for the candle stubs and matches, fumbling and burning himself several times. In a few minutes it was darker than black itself, and not even the candles could help. He picked up the wax stump and held it a few centimeters away from the page, careful not to burn it. He could barely make out the fresh lettering, which was still damp to his touch.
The end.
A sharp icy wind blew into the alcove, extinguishing the candles and sending an equally icy chill up his spine. Noam couldn't breathe. If he could have screamed, he would have. He dropped to the cobblestones, writhing in inexpressible agony. The book fell silently next to him. Something smooth and cold washing over him, dragging him. And he prayed and waited for the end that had been promised.
When Noam's lifeless corpse was found washed up offshore by a fisherman three days later, the police were baffled. They found no evidence of physical harm to the boy, or barely any evidence at all for that matter. The only thing they found was a book, which the boy was holding in his arms. It was an empty journal, they supposed. The cover was made of soft black leather with old brass embellishments on the corners and thin, creamy pages. What struck the police as most unusual was that the journal showed no traces of being in the water at all. It was too perfect.
"Thief!"
The cries followed Noam as he ran down the slippery cobblestone street, but he paid them little notice. The sky was thick with dark storm clouds and the rain was growing steadily heavier, and he was not going to be caught, thanks to the storm. The book he had stolen just moments earlier was safely under his tunic. He knew nothing of the book or its contents, only that it had been so long since he'd had something decent to read. The wind blew dripping strands of dark hair into his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently, blinking rain out of his eyes as he went. It was harder to run away when you couldn't see. In a few minutes, he was a fair bit away from the bookshop, where there were no people wandering the streets, especially with the storm's intensity rapidly increasing. Noam ducked into his safe alcove where a blanket, an old lantern and a dry set of clothes were waiting. He sighed somewhat happily and removed the book from under his tunic.
It was only then that he got a proper look at the book. Its cover was of soft black leather with brass embellishments on the corners to hold it down properly. He reached out, stroked the leather once and then drew his hand away quickly- it felt too much like skin. The pages were worn and creamy and they had a distinct old quality. Noam dried his hands on the blanket, settled in against the brick and opened the cover. The first page held the title in perfect cursive, which Noam was too impatient to read... he flipped a few pages in- he found introductions to be boring- and read in the same neat script,
It was in the midst of a storm that he stole me. If I didn't know better, I'd say there was a tornado on the way. Very basic thievery, I must say- no one would be mad enough to chase after a boy in rain and wind such as that. He grabbed me and stuffed me under his shirt and ran from that bookshop. It was about time. I wonder when he'll notice.
Noam's forehead creased in frustration. He found this story boring already. He flipped to the back of the book, but found it blank. Pages kept turning backwards until Noam found himself reading the same passage he had just read. He yelled and threw the book away into the storm. What was the point of stealing something if it was of no use to you? For an instant, he considered retrieving the book to use as kindling, but decided that, like stealing the book in the first place, would not be worth it in the end. Noam wrapped himself in the thin wool blanket and sighed, letting the rhythmic pattering of the rain against the cobblestones drag him into sleep.
He did not sleep well that night. In the morning, he awoke to find he was sleeping on the skin-like leather book, looking like it had never been in the storm at all. Or had it? Noam didn't remember much from the night before. He moaned. He felt horrible, kind of achy and sick. Even with his living conditions and subpar diet, he didn't get sick very often. The sky was a depressing charcoal gray, which matched his mood exactly. He puffed and went to look for some breakfast.
But first, he had to take care of that book. It was starting to worry him. Now that he was really awake, he knew that he had definitely thrown away the book last night. But how had it found its way under his head? He stopped in the middle of the alley and opened the book. He felt a cold chill run up his spine as he saw there was another page filled with the neat script that was not there last night.
He tried to throw me away last night. I don't think he fully understands that I'm a part of his life until I so choose. I am very much looking forward to that day when I am not a part of him anymore. What amuses me most is that he thinks he is in control. But he is not the first, no, not the first, and he will definitely not be the last.
Noam ran down to the canal as fast as his worn out shoes could take him, tripping several times along the way. By the time he got there, he was panting, muddy and bruised, but he wasn't really paying much attention to himself so much as the sinister and eerie book. He wound up and launched the leather journal into the air, where it fell into the water with a satisfying splash. He grimaced and went to inspect what a cluster of pigeons were picking at. He hoped it was some crusty bread or a bruised fruit, which would make for an excellent breakfast. He jogged up to them, waving his arms and shouting. What he saw not only caused him to lose his appetite for any kind of food, but sent such a shock through his system that he stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open. It was the book. But- no. He had just thrown it away. Into the river, he had seen it fall, heard the splash.....
He stood up and brushed some of the drying mud off his clothes, although being clean was the least of his worries. Slowly, carefully, he picked up the book by the brass embellishments, trying not to touch the skin-leather of the cover as if it would burn him. For what may have been the first time in his young, relaxed life, Noam was seriously worried.
He tried to dispose of me again. When will he learn? In time, I suppose, but by then it will be too late...When should I dispose of the boy? His time is running out, certainly, but the question is when. And how. Soon he will no longer be of use to me.
The boy is starting to aggravate me. He attempted to burn me this morning and ruined his lantern while doing it. Silly boy. There is no more time for games. I think the river will be an appropriate place; I will dispose of him as he first tried to dispose of me.
A few days later found Noam trembling from hunger and lack of sleep; he had not dare let his guard down since that devil book had decided he was going to drown. But Noam couldn't tear himself away from it; no, he was glued to the beautiful script, reading it long after sunset with some candle stumps he had salvaged. He was flipping the pages looking for anything more in the perfect handwriting when he saw the light was fading fast, too fast. He scrambled for the candle stubs and matches, fumbling and burning himself several times. In a few minutes it was darker than black itself, and not even the candles could help. He picked up the wax stump and held it a few centimeters away from the page, careful not to burn it. He could barely make out the fresh lettering, which was still damp to his touch.
The end.
A sharp icy wind blew into the alcove, extinguishing the candles and sending an equally icy chill up his spine. Noam couldn't breathe. If he could have screamed, he would have. He dropped to the cobblestones, writhing in inexpressible agony. The book fell silently next to him. Something smooth and cold washing over him, dragging him. And he prayed and waited for the end that had been promised.
When Noam's lifeless corpse was found washed up offshore by a fisherman three days later, the police were baffled. They found no evidence of physical harm to the boy, or barely any evidence at all for that matter. The only thing they found was a book, which the boy was holding in his arms. It was an empty journal, they supposed. The cover was made of soft black leather with old brass embellishments on the corners and thin, creamy pages. What struck the police as most unusual was that the journal showed no traces of being in the water at all. It was too perfect.
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