Having done this before, I convinced myself that nerves were unusual but not unexpected.

It was practically habit by now to count the heavy footfalls of the guards. One…two…three…

On seventy, there was a brief pause as the guard turned around at the end of the corridor and came my way again.

Thirty five footfalls. That was all I had to get out of sight.

I had done it in twelve before. This would be easy.

As the guard passed by my cell, I snaked my makeshift stick out of cloth and dried spit towards his keys. There was a slight jangle as I hooked them, but I made sure his next footfall covered the noise. He was none the wiser as I cradled that metal freedom in my hands. Perfectly executed, I congratulated myself.

When he was out of hearing shot, half the length to the end of the corridor, I burst into motion. I found the shiniest key and thrust it into my cell’s padlock. Click. I swallowed a shout of joy. The hardest part came next.

I would have to wait until the guard’s key pocket was aligned with my cell again. 105 footfalls for him to cross the entire corridor and then make it to my cell. The wait grated on my nerves. I prayed he wouldn’t look too closely at the slightly ajar cell or the small, dirty girl inside.

He passed once. 70 to go.

The slight pause of changing direction. 35.

As he passed again, I looped the keys back where I had taken them from. This time, I didn’t make a sound.

And then, when he was out of earshot again, I ran.

The gnarly tendrils of the oaks came down again and again, sucking any remaining life out of me; but my lungs had long stopped producing enough air to cry out. I could feel my now-shriveled limbs sticking gruesomely out of the fine gossamer dress that had been pristine just hours before.

Just hours before, when I hadn’t yet been picked to be the offering to the forest.

The forest supposedly protected my village from all depravity; but the trees themselves presented the true evil. Every year one of the most beautiful youths, usually ranging anywhere from fourteen to eighteen winters old, were chosen to be brought into the woods. The Elders proclaimed it was the greatest honor, to supply life to the forces keeping us safe, but we all knew what it truly was: a death sentence.

I had been dragged to an overgrown altar in the middle of a thick copse, kicking and screaming, my thick brown hair catching in my mouth - my red, red mouth that was the envy of every village girl.

The first branch had snuck down only seconds after the guard disappeared from view. He must have heard my anguished shrieks - but he didn’t return.

No one would, not for another year; and by then I would be a mere puddle of bones.

When scratchy voices started carrying a noisy conversation a few aisles away from me, I startled. I had been waiting at the doors of the library for it to open, and I had thought I was the first and only person in here.

“This is ridiculous!” The exclamation cut through the soft noise of my turning pages.

“What, that they made you prettier?” I was paying attention by now.

“No! I miss my old green self!” My brow furrowed, then cleared; she must have dyed her hair and now was unhappy with it.

“I think the red suits you just fine.” A new voice cut it, even scratchier than the last, with a distinguished accent I presumed was British.

“Shut up, Holmes. You’ve never suffered through a refurbishing.”

I raised my brows. A refurbishing?

I closed the novel I was skimming, tucking it into the crook of my arm as I quietly crept towards the end of my aisle. I passed each long row of books, glancing around surreptitiously to find the source of the voices.

No one was there.

I sighed and entered the aisle I was in: mystery. A beautiful copy of Sherlock Holmes caught my eye, next to a small crimson book. I reached for it-

“Don’t come any closer.” The accented voice rang out again from right in front of me. I jumped back, my hand hitting the top of the shelf.

A pale book to the left of Sherlock Holmes nudged its neighbor. “That wasn’t very nice.”

My brain started spinning. I had just heard both of those voices carrying a conversation.

And that impossibility meant that the red book on the right had been the one complaining about being refurbished.

I lowered myself to the ground until I was peering at the books from their level.

“Hello?” I whispered, already feeling my wallet get lighter from the insane asylum services I would no doubt be paying for in the near future.

There was silence.

“Do y-do you think she can hear us?” came the raspy voice of the thin red volume.

“Impossible,” Holmes breathed.

“I’m right here?” I said, slightly louder.

All three books jolted, little gasps coming from tiny mouth holes on the spine of their covers.

“Well,” intoned Holmes, “this is new.”

“What-what do we say?” I noticed the red book’s title: The Maltese Falcon, written in a fresh golden script.

“Introduce yourself, stupid!”

“But I’m ugly now!”

“Someone just do it please. You’re being ridiculous.”

“The Trio of Sentient Tomes are pleased to make your acquaintance,” the pale book said, dramatically elongating the inflections of each word.

I almost snorted. Books gave their exclusive club a name?

“And Julian Rose Cramer is pleased to meet you, too.” My reply mocked the dramatic tone of the pale book.

“How are you able to hear us?” Holmes asked.

“You were talking quite loudly,” I pointed out. The books looked at each other and made a shrugging motion, their spines curving strangely.

“How can you talk?” I wondered.

The pale book puffed. “That’s a long story.” I smirked at the unintended pun.

“I’ve got time.”

I needed to get out of my jacket, but I couldn’t stop paddling for even a moment. Not even to take off the ostentatious coat that was no doubt helping my pursuers track me.

My breaths were coming in sharp pants, my muscles squeezing tighter and tighter until they could barely function; but still I kept moving. I couldn’t afford not to.

I hadn’t seen anyone this side of the Mississippi River ever since the Yellowstone super volcano blew. As far as I knew, it was only me in my small cottage, doomed to die alone once the ashes in my lungs finally became too much for my body to handle.

My lungs had certainly forgotten how to work when the men clad in all black stormed through my rickety front door. They hadn’t seen me, slumped in the patchy red chair conveniently close to the back door. I had slipped out somehow; but someone must have heard me as I put on my jacket. There had been deep shouts, the echo of gun shots penetrating the quiet. I raced to the boathouse fifty feet away, dodging tall evergreens that had come back even sturdier after the explosion.

My canoe was probably the most functional thing I owned. Everything else was constantly covered in a small dusting of gray ash. I pushed it into the water and paddled madly away to the sound of boots storming onto wooden planks.

I had been paddling madly ever since my hands first gripped the oars.

I think I’ve gotten ahead of them. The bank slopes up so they can’t come down to the shore, and the trees make it hard to see the river for a clear shot.

Well.

It would have be a nearly impossible shot if only my jacket and it’s stupid highlighter yellow fabric wasn’t broadcasting my location to everyone.

A quick “bang” reverberated across the water before it filled my ears.

That was the only warning I had before I was thrown sideways, a searing pain in my shoulder causing me to cry out.

I glanced towards the trees, my vision rapidly going dark. Smoke drifted away from a nearby copse.

I collapsed on the floor of the canoe.

Stupid jacket.

I always thought it was ridiculous how people drop things in shock. It affects your mind, without even the slightest impact on your hand muscles.

I was wrong.

Never had I experienced such horror before. My fingers went numb, and I felt the cup slip out of my grasp almost in slow motion.

And then it was falling, falling towards the ground. I nearly crumpled too.

“No,” I choked.

The implosion of the glass broke through the murkiness of my brain. I watched as the cup shattered into thousands of pieces with a piercing squeal, the glass shiny and hopeful despite its newly broken state. I vaguely registered some splinters try to penetrate my jeans, but I didn’t feel any pain. Or perhaps I was past feeling.

I turned and ran. I heard the crunch of glass under my feet, admonishing me of my cowardice, warning me of the danger.

The danger.

I could still hardly believe it. I shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut.

All I could see was the plummeting glass fracturing over and over again.

The wind whipped my hair around, even as I held my bonnet closer to my head. Perhaps the sea thought that if it captured the hat, then I would stay.

But I couldn’t stay.

Tears gathered in the corner of my eyes - the effects of the wind, I told myself. The sparkling waves, catching the evening sunset on their far-off ripples, seemed to know they were saying goodbye.

Papa didn’t know he was dragging me away from a perfect life. He thought I would be happier in New York. But her waters were not as beautiful as mine.

It will be good for me, I tried to convince myself. The tears were flowing freely now.

It’s just an ocean, my brain told me. Then why did it feel like so much more? My whole childhood was filled with memories on these very beaches. The crystalline sea, the pristine sand, the salty breeze - they were everything to me.

I stifled a sob, and turned my back on my everything.

The clouds smile brighter every day Watching the little specks of black and yellow Go about their way

The aroma of the bee’s nectar Floats up towards the heavens And blesses even the evilest spectre

Only man grounded below Rarely reap joy from the bees Preferring to steal their precious gold

They wave away the gnats they see Not recognizing the hard workers Spreading love, bee by bee