Fear In Literature--Joey

Frankie woke up with a surge of adrenaline. They didn’t remember falling asleep in the
library but that was typical during weeks 9 and 10 of the quarter. It was difficult balancing their
work and school schedule while still sleeping. Their hardest class this quarter was a writing
workshop entitled Fear in Literature. Frankie didn’t want to take the class but she needed more
hours at work and the course fit the schedule.
Frankie’s fingers traced their hairline, hoping to alleviate the painful migraine. They
closed their eyes for a moment, the dull clinical lights in the library didn’t seem to help the pain.
When their eyes had adjusted, Frankie noticed the quiet. The library was empty. Their eyes
scanned the room for a clock. “3AM”. Frankie searched for their phone in their pocket to
confirm. Their spine grew soft and breathing accelerated as the seconds and minutes flew bystill
no sign of the of the phone, still stuck in the hardwood library chair. Adrenaline seeped back
into their muddied-red bloodstream, they felt the pump of substance in their extremities. Heart
still racing, Frankie looked back at the clock. “3:33 AM”. They grabbed a single Jansport and
laptop and ran to the unoccupied librarian’s desk. The air around the desk was rancid; it made
standing nearby impossible to stomach. Frankie tuned into a hum that hadn’t stopped since she
had woken up. Between Postmodern poetry and Renaissance Philosophy stood a janitor wielding
a floor buffer. His face was buried in a hooded fleece jacket and his focus remained intent on his
task. As Frankie approached, the smell returned; and with each step the Janitor seemed to grow
taller. Mere feet away, they noticed a viscous puddle that was the object of the janitor’s attention.
The buffer was doing a terrible job of cleaning the mess- instead, whipping the viscera around
and spitting it all over the books, creating a monochromatic Jackson Pollock.
No, Frankie had enough. Sprinting in the direction they came, the librarian’s help desk
whizzed by, but not before revealing its grotesque secret. Below the desk sat another puddle of
dark liquid; fuzzy mold framed the puddle in green and white. These stagnant puddles,
previously unnoticed, were everywhere. It sat in the curves of reading couches and in the middle
of hallways often next to backpacks and piles of textbooks. There was a confusing pattern of
puddles throughout the library that was slowly beginning to take effect. Frankie couldn’t run
after this.
The process was slow. All firmness in their body faded as the lights of the library grew
far dimmer. Frankie sank into themself, left only with the sensation of a crayon sitting in the sun.
Spores of mold drifted to her nose. It tickled. The last thing Frankie felt were the butterflies in
their stomach: the kind of butterflies that come in the moments before a big change or leap of
faith.