There’s one rule you must remember before you begin reading this story. Don’t tell anyone about it. The moment the story ends, bury it. Burn its ashes and forget that this story was ever written.
I knew that the window was foggy and that my vision wasn’t blurry but I kept wiping my glasses. I kept fixing the wrong mistakes. He stood there. In that dark brown sweater, white collared shirt, cuff sleeves, straight cream pants and black Oxfords, he stood there. It screamed his name before he could introduce himself.
“There is a poem here”, he settled down in a seat close to the window sill and pointed to the fog. It was indecipherable. “About you”, I whispered, confidently saying each word as it was going to be the most perfect lie I had ever curated. It had to be precise and enchanting. “Read it to me”, he folded his arms and waited for me to sing the same verses to him that he had painted on the pages of every book in this library. A library that didn’t carry words but souls in it and every soul led to his. I smiled. A shy smile. I lifted my hand and violently wiped off the fog from the window. I laughed meekly at my own arrogance. “You erased the poem”, he uttered in horror, in dismay. “Not from your soul”, I reminded him. I knew that he wanted the poem to be everywhere. He wanted it to consume everyone just the way that it consumed him. His burning desire was his weakness. “You could burn down this place and those verses will continue to breath the same air as you do”, he looked into my eye and didn’t blink. Not once. “Teach me poetry”, I do not meet his eye. It is bleeding. I must stop myself from looking straight into it. I must look at my feet and pretend that he doesn’t exist. “If I knew learning, I would”, I could feel his gaze fixed on me. I could feel how his demonic thoughts were a source of pleasure for him. He thoroughly enjoyed my entrapment. “Why did you call me here?”, I asked even though he had answered that question already. “To tell you all about my last murder”, he casually remarked and pulled out a dagger from his back pocket. I did not know that he had a pocket. I did not know that he had a dagger. I did not know we were here to talk about murders. “Why was it your last murder?”, I slowly looked up, still avoiding his eyes. They could perform magic, I did not want to risk losing my sanity. “It will be my last murder”, he moved closer to the window and looked out even though the fog was thicker and nothing of the outside was visible, “I must die as a murderer” “You must die covered in the blood of your sins”, I howled, not as loudly as I intended to but the silence of the library elevated my voice, “I am glad you must” “To call one’s desire to feed words a sin is a silly mistake on your part”, he shook his head, “You are unfed, after all” “I have been to more libraries than you could imagine, I have read books in languages foreign to you and I have spoken words you don’t know meanings of”, I boasted. I was wise and he must not challenge it. “You haven’t read the four tragic verses”, he reminded me. He knew the four tragic verses. He knew the verses that had brought death before many. He gave birth to the verses that had swallowed up many souls alive. “I am here to learn them”, I declared, “My wisdom shall transcend yours today, I must learn the verses that you have kept hostage in this ancient prison..” “Not a prison but a heaven, a heaven that allows hell to exist within”, he interrupted. He brought the dagger in his hand closer to my chin. It was a threat and I was anything but threatened. “Give me what it has, I am here for wisdom, I must not leave without it”, I beamed at him and at his dagger. It wasn’t a weapon, it was my award. “Would you burn yourself to save the four tragic verses?”, he challenged me. I pointed at the candle that was burning on the shelf near me. “I shall burn to ashes to save what is left of the tragic poem, I shall perish into doom to revive the verses lost”, I spoke with a passion unparalleled. I never came here to leave. No one meets death to leave it unattended. One must greet it with open arms or not dare walk close to it. “Even if you brought enough ink to flood this place, the lost verses could not be rewritten and that is the tragedy of the four verses”, he strengthened his grip on the dagger preparing for the moment he had anticipated. “Perform the deed, let me read the verses that only death will read to me”, I brought my chin closer to his dagger. It was cold but not frightening. “My last murder will be an end”, he said, “The library shall perish forever, the tragic verses will be forgotten, the world will not know what pure truth looks like, false light will take over these wisely darkened corridors” “No, your last murder will enlighten!”, I protested, “It will pass on the legacy of the verses you wrote when you were alive, it will hide in my soul the secret of your wisdom” “I am alive”, he laughed, the most ridiculous laughter I had ever heard, “I am not what you see but I am also not what you perceive” “You must kill me now before I go mad”, I announced in protestation, “In madness, death will not be kind, I must die with this mind, I must be buried with it” “You came here for death and redemption?”, he raised an eyebrow. “There’s no reason one would walk into this forbidden sanctuary of books”, I shouted, “No one greets a demon with the intention of returning home” “I called you tell you about my last murder”, he pulled the dagger away from my chin, “I called you to let you witness it” It was only a moment later when I saw him split his own throat. He was alive but no more. He had been alive all this while. He had killed himself. His body now laid on the floor, blood gushing out and his eye wide open. I wasn’t afraid. I was infuriated. It was all a lie. He was not a ghost. He had lived and I had awaited death. My quest for the four tragic verses had been going on for decades. My quest for the redemption they offered had been going on for decades. He killed himself. He killed the heart that had hidden the four tragic verses. The library was no more. The verses were gone. I must live on and never be wise enough. I must become a tragedy on my own.
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