I walk along the empty streets in the dead of night, I breathe in a familiar smell.

Smoke.


The gray, thick substance fills my lungs and I don’t even cough. I’m so used to soot, ashes, and most of all, smoke, that it doesn’t even affect me anymore. In fact, it’s almost to the point where it’s comforting. It wraps around my thin, undernourished body like a soft hug, engulfing me into the haze until I am almost unseen to any passersby. Good thing, too. I look around to see where the gray blanket is coming from. A group of people are huddled around what seems to be a slightly out of control bonfire. I walk on, not having time to stop and help.


I am on my way to an important business meeting, and if I get caught, it could be the end of my income and my freedom. I do my best to go under the radar, do my business and stay out of sight. I don’t lead rebellions against our terrible government, I don’t start riots in the street, I don’t steal, and I try my best not to break the law. But some rules were made to be broken, right?


I reach the alleyway where my “meeting” will be held. I’m expecting three of the other Traders to show up. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t all show. This is very dangerous business and they could have been caught at another meeting.

“Aiden.” I snap my head up to see a thin woman walking my way, half concealed by shadows.

“Mary, good to see you. I’m assuming you have the items in question?” my voice is shakey and quiet. I brush my long, dark hair out of my face. This woman towers over me, but I have no reason to fear her. If anything, she should fear me. You see, I am at the top of the chain when it comes to the Trade. It is odd for a teenage girl such as myself to be so high up in the Trading Ranks, but a little change never hurt anyone.

“Of course, have I disappointed you yet?” I shoot Mary a look. She usually doesn’t sass me like this. I demand respect. “Miss,” she adds through clenched teeth. I throw her a sarcastic smile.

“No, not yet,” I mutter, watching as two more people slip down the alley, taking their place in our circle. No one speaks. Bags open and the goods were placed in the middle of the circle.

A pile of my drugs.

A pile of my life savers.


I pick the first item up. My pale, cold hands run along the spine, feeling a sense of peace. Just touching this portal to another world makes me relax. I realize that my gray eye are shut tight, so I open them.

“The Invisible Wall,” I read aloud. Yes, the illegal items we are trading in the dead of night are books.
Books are my drug.
I am addicted to the tough cover and the soft turn of pages.
I breath in the heavy scent of aging paper.
Books are my drug.
But of course, our government decided that books were a waste, a waste of trees, a waste of time, a waste of money. So they did the only logical thing that their narrow minds could think of and banned most paper items. After disposing of all of the wonderful texts, they outlawed books made of paper, outraging many, especially those living in the Book district. Now, many of us are Traders, exchanging our paper-made joys illegally.

Our city is divided up into different sections. There is a Food Division, a Clothes Division, etc. They are all small and have close knit communities. My family lived in the Book Division, which is now called the Burnt Division. The Destructors, as we Burnt Division inhabitants call them, stormed our division one night and burned almost everything. Most of the books were destroyed.



“What will you give me for it?” Mary demands. She pushed another book towards me, “I also have The Dream by the same author,” she informs me. Mary is an ex-Librarian and knows which books I would like. It’s hard to trade with her, because she drives a hard bargain.

“I’ll give you,” I fish around in my bag for a bit before pulling it out, “Emma,” I set the blue, hardcover book on the ground.

“Deal,” Mary snatches up the book, and I mirror her motions. It is odd for Mary to make a bargain so quickly. I am thrilled to hear her seal the deal so quickly.

Deal.

I have heard that one word so many times.

That one word has brought me the closest thing to joy that I can imagine.


The next Trader is someone I have never seen before. He shoves his book over to me roughly. This takes me by surprise. Most Traders treat their books with love, but this Trader was evidently different. This stranger is the polar opposite of Mary, Gregory and myself.

“The Hunger Games,” I read. I raise an eyebrow. I have not read it, but in my grandparent’s youth, it was a popular book.

“Yeah. Give me any old book, I don’t care,” the man says in a gruff voice. It matches his outward appearance. Everything about him looks rough and uneven.
“Alright. You can have this one,” I hand him The Box and avert my attention away from him. I have a bad feeling about him, and it sinks to the bottom of my stomach, twisting and twirling around.
The next and final Trader of this meeting goes by the name of Gregory. He was our biggest competitor when it came to the bookstore. He was now one of my best and favorite Traders. He handed me a large book, and I could see a smile on his face, despite the shadows. The book was huge, and heavy.
“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare,” I read aloud. I bite my lip to prevent myself from screaming. The need to jump up and dance around with glee is overwhelming, but I suppress the urge. It’s next to impossible to find this treasure, and a weird feeling bubbles up inside of me.
Devotion.
“Knew you’d like it,” the middle age man couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.
“Uh, wow, I wasn’t expecting this. I can give you the rest of the books I have. That would consist of…” I pull out the books one by one, “The Help, The Whipping Boy, and Wonderstruck,” I am reluctant to give up The Whipping Boy, but I already have three copies of it. My mother read it to me when I was younger. It was the first book I fell in love with.
As the meeting closes, I bid my farewells to Mary, Gregory, and the stranger. I glance around the corner before exiting the alleyway, making my way home. I live in the wreckage of our bookstore, continuing my life in the debris and soot of my crumbling home. It is dangerous for me to be around here. The Authorities often do rounds, checking the alleyways and buildings. I’ve almost been caught a couple of times. I don’t care, though, I cannot leave. I am chained to that house, stuck in the memories of the past, wallowing in them. I do nothing about it, I let myself be enslaved to a different chapter of my life. I refuse to move on from my past life, I tell myself my parents are still around and are just out for the day, purchasing more novels for our shop.

“Mom, Dad, I’m home,” I call softly through the small, crumbling shop. I start to take out my new books, putting them on shelves. “Hi, Aiden, how is my favorite daughter?” I ask myself, taking on my father’s voice. “I’m good, I got a couple of new books today. You can read them when I am done,” I tell him. The only noise in the shop is my shaky, quiet voice, and the sound of pages turning. “But I want to read them before your father,” I speak for my mother. “Rock, paper, scissors,” I tell my parents.
They both pick paper.
Paper always wins.

Suddenly, my voice and the pages are not the only sound. I feel a chill shoot down my spine and I pause.

“Come out of the house, Aiden,” a voice says. It is not my own. It is odd to hear anyones voice but my own. I can barely get used to speaking with Mary and Gregory. I do not leave the house. I simply stand there, waiting.

Footsteps.

Louder.

Closer.

Faster.


“Aiden Hopkins, you have been caught red handed with owning and trading illegal goods. You are under arrest,” Voice says.
I don’t like the voice very much.
I slowly begin to make the connection.
Voice was the stranger at the meeting.
The rough and uneven man.
He followed me home.
I have been caught.
This isn’t supposed to happen to me.
I am careful.

I don’t put myself out there.
I guess even the best of us get caught.

“No,” I say, “Mom! Dad!” I call out, “Help me, please!” I say louder. For some reason, they don’t reply. I start to panic. Where are they? The owner of the gruff voice is stepping over my piles of books, come at me quickly.
I can’t move.
I can’t leave.
I am chained to this house.

Hands wrap around my wrists.

Chains.

I am chained.

“Mom.”

I cannot leave here.

“Dad.”
They drag me away.


I am forced into a small car and I can see the store out of the corner of my eye. I also can see the red flames, burning down the remains of my life with my parents. I can see them in the windows, screaming.
Mom.
Shakespeare.
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
Esther Earl.
Catcher in the Rye.
Dad.
I watch them burn.
I watch the smoke fill up their lungs.
I watch the flames feast on their paper flesh.
I watch them burn.

I cannot move. I feel the tears slip down my face and the screams leave my mouth, but I am rooted in place. I feel as if I am the store and I cannot break away from the fire.

We drive along in the cramped car and I feel eyes on my neck, measuring it for the course noose that will kill me. My arms are open, waiting for Death to deliver its tragically beautiful kiss, removing my soul from my physical being. But Death’s job will not be that hard.

You see, I am already dead.
I am chained in the ashes and smoke of the previous chapter.