Alice

Alice

I am Alice.

Small in stature, quiet in demeanor, and unimposing in presence. A negative threat to anyone within arms reach. The type to pick up a book, never a sword. Never venturing beyond the apples in the produce aisle. Kiwis are too exotic. I am not. Undriven and unimpressive. Your eyes would skim past me in a line up and never settle on me, even if I was on fire.

I am plain.

At least, that is what I let the world think. Because the world was never meant to think of me.

Seems slightly twisted to prelude the story with a dull explanation of my exterior while I watch diluted blood circle the drain beneath my feet, in a shower so scaldingly hot Hades himself would venture to only tip a toe towards.

I can feel my backside screaming from a fresh wound, but most of what's running down my waist and thighs to meet the sewer below...is not mine. And that's oddly satisfying. Always better to get them before they get you, amirite? Of course, this one had it coming - or at least that's what I’d been told. Crimes against humanity and what not, the whole course of making right by doing something wrong seemed to be the story of my life.

I rubbed my face feverishly, cautious not to drive my nails still caked in the vitriol of someone who stepped out of line, into my eyes. Because, frankly, that's how you get pinkeye.

Do you want pinkeye, I remind myself.

Dollar store mascara ran down my cheeks from the corners of my eyes and I was glad it was cheap and easy to wash away - like any regrets I may have had Stepping into this role. Because here I was and tomorrow was just around the corner, and I had a new name at the top of my list in fresh ink.

----

It was less than 24 hours later and I was still replaying the mistakes I’d made the previous evening. As my fingers idly cruised across the binding of an encyclopedia referencing pacific northwestern birds. 3rd Edition.

I’d been sloppy, my mind had wandered. Where was my control? My focus?

Oh, There was an amazing piece on the variety of auklets in the area by Claire Jackson in this edition.

He’d spit on me, how uncouth.

That fucker.

I scanned the bar code and listened politely to Mrs. Debble. She was adorable in stature and gleefully ambitious. At 83 years old she’d already checked the same reference out 4 times since I’d started at the library and, come Hell or high water, that blue haired woman was going on a birdwatching tour. She’d told me no less than 30 times during this conversation and the dozens we’d had before. Her soft skinned spidery fingers reached up to grasp lovingly at a silver locket she wore as she spoke on and on about Frank. He’d been gone 7 years but he’d be there with her in spirit, she just knew.

I smiled sweetly at her and handed the book back, complete with a freshly printed return date notice tucked into the front sleeve. I’d taken a moment to circle the date with a highlighter. Mrs. D didn’t see so well.

She was still talking and the library had closed 17 minutes ago, but I would not be the one to shut her down. At each inkling of affection or praise to late Frank, I noticed her slowly spin the locket between her thin fingers and watched her eyes light up over the brim of tortoise shell frames. Ah, so this was love.

I would’ve bottle up that woman's sincerity if it were possible. Instead, I was ignoring a constant and obnoxious hum and buzz from the phone in my back pocket.

Another burn notice, another notification to add yet another name to the list, another way out of my debt. I sighed internally.

“Alright Alice, dear.” Mrs. D had my attention again. “You have a delightful evening, maybe go watch the new Murder She Wrote episode.” I didn’t have the heart to break it to her that the show had been off air for 20 years. You don’t crush that kind of happiness.

“Sounds amazing, Mrs. D, I’ll try to catch it.” She smiled warmly and I waved her off, watching her bump into the periodicals on the way out. Lord help us all if that woman was driving home.

I followed her shadow to the door, recovering a few magazines from the floor before turning the latch and locking the door behind her. I flipped the principal lights off to signal the building was closed for the evening, leaving me with a few sparse security lights to guide my way as I replaced the magazines and ventured towards the return bin.

I’d made a habit of flipping through the pages of returns to look for damage but on occasion there would be some interesting trinket. A shoelace or a grocery receipt as a bookmark, rarely a photo. And every so often, some asshole had drawn a d**k in pen on pages that ended in 3.

Tonight was much of the same and unremarkable as any other evening as I drug a stepstool to the adult nonfiction section to start the process of rehoming books. It was quiet. I loved the quiet. It's why I’d picked this place. There was enough noise in my head at any given moment and this was a serene oasis from the chaos.

Calm. Placid. Untouched by those that held my strings and the wicked of their world.

A lone printer beeped as it powered itself down for the evening, other than that it was silence. Pure blissful silence. And there I was, alone with my thoughts, indulging in the quiet. So, of course, I softly burped. Then, giggling to myself I swore to grow up. Eventually.

“Aw, kitten…”

I was on tiptoes, straining to reshelf a book half my weight on a shelf that had to be 2 stories up. I froze. That voice. That tone. As I felt a firm hand on the small of my back, I swallowed silently.

“Manners.”

The pressure on my lower back increased. He was able to command me with a touch, his voice made my pupils dilate, and I was left wondering just how the f**k he’d gotten in here.

----

“Samson.” It was supposed to sound subdued, submissive, and drip with a quiet enthusiasm. But I was choking on his name and he could tell. Fingertips pressed firmly into my spine, it was obvious my indiscretion had not gone unnoticed.

“Come down, kitten.” His grizzled voice purred, a finger hooking into the waistband of my jeans and tugging me backwards and towards him. I inhaled sharply and back peddled my way from the stepstool before turning to face the behemoth of s**t piled before me.

Brace yourself Alice, I internally warned myself. He’s just a body. A body that could be cut, sliced, and fed to the ducks at Millers pond under the guise of day old hotdogs.

My heavily lashed doe eyes rose slowly, taking him in. My vantage from floor height was a view of a broad chest behind a button down pressed shirt. In an awful shade of blue. He had no taste. I craned my neck slowly upwards, hoping to notice a flaw. A stain. A button askew. But instead I was rolling my gaze over his thick protruding adam's apple, a neck and jawline lightly peppered with 2 day old stubble, a tight smile, and eventually onto and into deep green eyes that held me in my place.

His hand had managed to remain planted at the small of my back and I had now just taken notice. I shifted. It stayed.

“You were sloppy last night…” His free hand was running over bits of my hair.

My face hardened.

“He was a lousy troll.” I found myself c*****g my head out of reach.

“Excuses?” He was smirking. “How unlike you.”

My lips pursed and then my mouth quickly wrinkled into a tight snippet drawn to the left side of my face. “No, Sam, really. He was a troll.” Yes. The humbly bumbly sort that stomped around under bridges and ate children.

They eat f*****g children.

And this comes from a proudly crotchfruit free individual. Not a fan. They are sticky and keep weird things in their pockets. But you don’t eat them.

Sam's grip on me loosened, but his fingers were under my chin. Like a bear paw cupping a tiny tree nut, bringing it upwards for inspection. If my debt hadn’t kept me a slave to his good graces, I would’ve made quick work of his over arched prominent nose, instead, I huffed quietly.

“Troll or not,” He went on, subtly pulling at the loose strands of hair that fell from a sloppy bun atop my head. “When you leave evidence of yourself, you leave evidence of us all.” His voice was calm and calculated ...and his point was well made. In this game, you are quick, clean, and unseen. Or you are another casualty.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned over me and then, with calculated precision, he plucked a strand of hair. I flinched. A silver strand with slight purple pearlescent undertones. It wasn't grey. It wasn’t manufactured from a box or comb through glitter wand. It was one of many i’d missed the last time i’d doused my hair in bleach to hide this not-so-subtle characteristic of mine. Sam dangled the wisp in front of me.

“Do better.” He softly ordered, sprinkling his fingers and dropping the hair.

And just like that, for the first time since our encounter, his hand left my lower back. He grabbed a book from the small pile I had set aside the stepstool and thumbed through it nonchalantly.

“There’s no pictures.” I cooed, repressing a smirk, my hand coming up to rub the portion of my head still stinging from his assault. Sam flipped the book shut and handed it to me.

“Keep it up, and pictures will be the only thing I have left to remember you by.” He retorted, my already absent smirk faded even further.

“Goodnight, kitten.” He turned to exit. “Take care of Mrs. D.”

I folded my arms and held the book to my chest, as close as I held the gentle warning he’d given me. I hated when he was right.