Whenever I had an hour or two to spare, I would head up to the attic and pick out a book. Then, I would settle down on the old rug in front of the bookcase and read. Those were the best hours of my life, when I could escape from my hectic life and live in a different world, full of magic and mysteries, at least for a while. I never forgot a word I read in those books.
I remember the first time I went up to that attic – the day I discovered the bookcase, and read the first book. We had just moved into our new house; it was exciting, because the place was huge; it had three stories and an endless number of rooms. Each door seemed to hide a different world, waiting to be discovered.
I was exploring the top floor, where I discovered the narrow flight of steps at the end of the corridor. Thrilled, I quietly crept up the steps and peered into the attic. The first thing I saw was, of course, the bookcase, standing majestically in front of me. As it towered over me, I couldn’t help but feel a bit frightened; but I approached it anyway. Enthralled, I ran my fingers over the book spines, feeling them tingle under my touch. It felt as if they came from a different world.
I pulled one out at random, and stroked its blue hardback cover. It was old, yet perfectly preserved. On it there was nothing but a title. I stared at it – it seemed to be alive in my hands. I could hear its soft whispers, beckoning me to open it; I could feel its rhythmic heartthrob against my palms. It seemed like a crime to put it back in its place. So I kneeled down on the rug, opened the book and started reading. For three hours, I was trapped by this book, turning page after page hungrily until I had drunk down every last word. Only then was I able to slip it back into the bookcase and leave the sacred attic.
From that day, I would go up to the attic whenever I got a chance. Nothing satisfied me but a book from those enchanted shelves – they offered me a world better than my own. I withdrew myself from everything else, and spent all my time in the attic, reading. My parents and teachers were happy I was spending my time this way, and all my friends gradually moved on. Meanwhile I had come to the point where I cared about nothing else but those books, and I was happy to stay up, day and night, reading. It was an addiction, of the kind that was more sinister than drugs or smoking. It was an addiction the human mind cannot understand.
Finally, one day I realised I had read every single book there was on those shelves. That was what destroyed me. When I tried to reread one I had already devoured, I would find that all the pages inside were blank. I looked in every bookstore, but no other book gave me the same satisfaction. I was sinking into depression, to the point where I stopped eating and talking – no one could help me.
I sought an answer on the old bookcase in the attic. As I ran my fingers over the smooth, dark carvings, I felt the spirit inside speak to me. It beckoned me to join it, in a land better than ours, where I would have my every desire. The land I had read about in the books, the land I had been dreaming of. I now knew this was the only way – so I let it take me there. I felt my body tingle as I turned into a book, just like all the others, and fitted on the shelf of that magical bookcase.1
Bronze trophy winner
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
