The “bedroom” was half-sheltered from the living area by an old, tall, wooden bookcase, now bare of books, empty shelves peering into the room like vacant eyes, sad and soulless with their loss. Another time. A different reality.
“Funny”, she thought, how books were always the first things (with the exception of black men) to be seized, the first thing to disappear. At least, that’s what happened in most of the fictional portrayals of a dystopian future that the books had offered and that Abby had read in the past -- a past where books were plentiful, sold in stores, read by the curious, hoarded by a few, collected by hard core aficionados of literature who could only sleep with an open book upon their chest, their sleeping fingers caressing the yellowing pages in dreams.
“Funny” how true, how prophetic the books had been. “Funny” how quickly fiction had become reality. A quick sweep of the apartment by uniformed men and women and within minutes, her books were gone -- all those words had disappeared, never to be rewritten, never to be re-read. She had no story to lay upon her chest at night now. She was empty. She could not sleep.
How she had taken them for granted. How she missed them now. Hilarious. Darkly, insanely hilarious. She felt as though she was tied to reality by a thin chord that might snap at any given moment. “This must be what it is like to lose your mind,” she thought as she stood outside herself. “This must be it.”