The librarian.

It was seven in the morning. Desmond sat up in bed, feeling unusually weak. Today was his last day at home before he left for the university. He had imagined this moment in countless ways—glimpses of freedom, fantasies of independence—but now that it was here, it felt surreal. Life at the university, as far as he was concerned, would be far better than what he had endured here. It was more than just a change of scenery—it was a calling. A call to freedom, to unrestrained living. He didn’t exactly love school, and he certainly hated everything that came with it—assignments, expectations, authority—but even more, he despised being disturbed. At home, it was constant: his parents’ rules, their watchful eyes, the endless noise from those bratty siblings of his. School might be annoying, but the university promised distance, escape, and above all else—privacy. No obvious rules. No hovering shadows. No endless obligations. They might call him obscure, perhaps even creepy, but that wouldn’t matter. There would be no one to judge him. No one to control how he lived. For once in his life, he would be free. Or so he thought. He rolled out of bed, went through his morning routine, and got dressed with calm precision. Walking down the long flight of stairs in the quiet house, he paused for a moment. This was the home he was about to trade in—willingly—for a new chapter. His footsteps echoed across the marble floors, bouncing through the hollow silence like something long forgotten. "Mr. Desmond," came a voice from the living room. Toby, the family’s humble servant, was dusting the polished furniture alongside a few others. He looked up, startled to see Desmond all dressed up. "You're already set for the journey, sir?" Toby asked, his voice laced with confusion and a touch of alarm. "Yes, Toby," Desmond replied, striding past him without breaking pace. "Do you have a problem with that?" "N-No, sir," Toby stammered. "But your father—" "Don’t bring my father into this," Desmond snapped, his tone sharp with irritation. "He’s not the one leaving for school, is he?" "No, sir..." Toby’s voice dropped, cautious. He had learned long ago that trouble wasn’t worth chasing, especially when it wore the face of the boss’s only son. "Sir," he tried again, more gently this time. "I must let you know—" "That’ll be all, Toby." Desmond cut him off. "Get the others to gather my things. Everything I set aside in my room—bring them to the car. I’m driving." And with that, he walked out, heading toward the garage. Peter, another servant, peeked from behind the curtain, watching the boy vanish through the doorway. The rumble of an engine flared to life seconds later. "He’s going to get you in trouble," Peter muttered. ---- Toby sighed. "I know, Peter. I know." The drive to school was quiet and subtle. The music blaring through the speakers drowned the world outside and muffled the thoughts in his head. This was exactly what he needed. That stunt he pulled earlier that morning had clearly been unwarranted, and he knew it. Poor Toby was right—his dad would be furious when he found out. But who cared? The last thing Desmond wanted was the old man driving him to school. That would’ve been too much—a grand spectacle. He glanced at the rearview mirror and stared into the eyes looking back at him—coral-hued and oddly hypnotic. They were the eyes of a boy ruled by the idea of a different world. A world he believed he did not belong to. From the moment he could remember, Desmond had always felt displaced. Alienated. The urge to socialize, to communicate, to act like others had long been deadened within him. It made no sense. Why did people make friends? Why did they laugh? Why did they find joy in a world filled with betrayal, suffering, and death? In his view, joy always ended in pain. Love, no matter how sincere, led to heartbreak. So why love at all? He sighed as he rounded a corner. His parents had tried. Oh, they had tried. Birthdays, public outings, private clubs—they even enrolled him in a social group behind his back, all in the name of giving him a “normal” life. But it only made things worse. To Desmond, life was unnecessary. Debilitating. Circular in its absurdity. He wore a mask—literally and emotionally. No one knew why. He wasn’t scarred or disfigured. But the mask was part of him now. His father had fought it. Society labeled it strange. Teachers had tried to confiscate it. But it only pushed him further into himself. One time, when a classmate tried to yank it off, Desmond shoved him into a wall and dislocated the boy’s arm. He got suspended, but he didn’t care. The silence it brought was worth it. His siblings, Royal and Dariel studied abroad. His sister. The most intimate family member to him had chosen to school at a nearby state school, his cousin—who once lived with them—had long since learned not to interfere with Desmond’s solitude. People called him a weirdo. He didn’t disagree. --- At the school’s administration office, he completed his registration without incident—aside from one nosy official who stared too long at his half-veiled face. “This one’s an upcoming menace,” the man muttered to his colleague, who chuckled in reply. He was shown to his private quarters, a luxurious apartment prepared courtesy of his father’s ever-present influence. It was black and white, exquisitely furnished, and oddly comforting. Even the toilet water looked like it belonged in a hotel suite. Desmond dropped his things, sank into a wide mahogany couch, pulled out his diary, and began to write. > Dear Mallory, I've finally rid myself of the pests who found joy in torturing my stateliness and closure. But here I am—in a new, alien environment. One I’m still unsure of. Will it suit my nature or repel my disposition? I guess there’s only one way to find out. --- Later, at dusk, he stepped onto the veranda to adjust a windowpane from the outside—it was tilted awkwardly and needed fixing. “Hello, neighbor!” a voice called from below. Desmond turned, squinting in the direction of the voice. A lanky guy stood across the lawn, waving like a man possessed. His hair was wild and his smile even wilder. “I believe you’re new around here! My name’s Golding, but you can call me Goldy! I live just across the street!” Desmond blinked. The boy cupped his hands to his mouth, still yelling. “What’s your name?” Desmond paused. Then, with a blank expression, muttered, “Ratsy,” and turned back to his window without another word --- By 8 o'clock in the morning, the class was still mostly empty, save for the soft footsteps of a few students scurrying around in search of their seats. Some paused to steal curious glances at him, bemused by his presence, while others frowned in irritation. He wasn’t prepared for either audience. Instead, he spent the idle moments poring over the course material for the day. “Law of Tort,” the title read. A course he had combed through countless times while trapped in the shell of his home. “Hey, dumpster!” He didn’t need to look up to recognize the cheap attempt at confrontation. He kept his head buried in his cogitation. “Looks like someone’s still recovering from the COVID pandemic after all.” Laughter rippled through the class. The moron leaned in, bringing his face close. “You sure you don’t need a doctor... weirdo?” “That’s enough,” a voice rang from the back—clearly the lecturer’s. The i***t gave Desmond a long, hard stare. But Desmond remained still, eyes buried in a thick textbook, unflinching. “This isn’t over, wet-pants,” he sneered, swaggering off to his seat. His friends greeted him with shoulder taps and playful punches. “I apologize for the delay,” the lecturer said, taking his stance at the front of the class. “Rough morning.” “Don’t beat yourself up, sir. My dad’s the same way. For him, it’s always the car tires,” someone called from the back. Laughter erupted again. The lecturer, slightly stunned, adjusted his glasses but pressed on. “Well, I believe it’s been one hell of a journey getting admitted to study Law at this prestigious center, isn’t it?” There were murmurs of approval. “Then I trust each of you has at least glanced through some of the material for this course.” Silence followed. He turned to the class. “When I walked in this morning, I saw this young man,” he pointed at the douchebag who had taunted Desmond earlier, “making threatening advances at this gentleman here.” Now he pointed at Desmond. “I wasn’t threatening him!” the accused blurted out, alarmed at the notion of being in trouble. The lecturer ignored him. “What kind of tort is that?” Pin-drop silence. The lecturer smirked inwardly. “Your father may share my habits, young man,” he said, addressing the earlier heckler, “but at least we don’t share the same hollow skulls. That particular trait, it seems, skipped your branch of the family tree.” Realization began to settle over the class. They had stepped on the wrong toe. Now he turned to Desmond, his tone changing. “You, young man in the terrorist mask—do you have anything to add? Or are you just as hollow-headed as the rest of your crew?” Desmond flushed beneath the mask. He hadn’t expected the sudden spotlight. The laughter was loud and rolling. Still, he raised his head and looked the lecturer in the eye. “Trespass to person,” he began calmly. “Which includes assault and attempted battery. Mostly punishable by up to a year of imprisonment or a fine, depending on the court's discretion and the jurisdiction in which the act occurs.” He paused to breathe. The lecturer’s eyes gleamed. “Now isn’t that something close to a wonder?” “Wonder enough to let me cripple you with a lawsuit, dear sir.” The class gasped. The lecturer raised a brow, intrigued. “Pray, what would be my offense?” “Defamation. Libel and slander. Public insult. Aspersion. Verbal assault. Derogation of duty and responsibility. Diminution of legal personality. Negligence. Just to name a few—enough to get you disbarred, locked in a cell for at least five years, and have your pocket wrung dry.” Laughter tittered through the hall. The lecturer squinted at him, both annoyed and impressed. “What’s your name, boy?” “Private information, sir. There’s no clause in the curriculum mandating intercourse.” The lecturer paused. Then grinned. Genuinely, this time. He turned to face the board. “Assault…” he said, as he began the lecture. --- The next dawn, while jogging across the school field, he noticed the eyes. Many eyes. Yet it wasn’t the usual disdain or mockery. Nor admiration or lust. His appearance was too sombre for that. It was something else entirely—respect. For once, they saw him in a new light. They knew now—he was exceptional, special, and perhaps... better than they’d ever be. And that was all he ever wanted.