The title of the book is all I remember.
Death For Time
It was a bizarre title that did not fit into the library's non-fiction section. I was only looking for books on Einstein's theory of relativity. But this bizarre title that I should have ignored was the one I took to the counter to check out.
I do not remember clearly what the lady's words were but the book was supposedly not in the library's catalogue. It was a confusing matter quickly resolved with her adding it to the catalogue and then checking it out to me for a month's time.
The book had no author with a simple tattered cover carved with the title and a small drawing of an hourglass at the centre of it. It made me wonder… Why an hourglass of all things? Why not a clock or a wristwatch?
The book was handwritten in ink. The sometimes wavering strokes indicated fear and the shivering cold as the pages described. The words sometimes smudged as if written in a hurry or cried over. Many times delicate as if the author had all the time in the world to write it.
But as I kept turning the pages the book came to an abrupt end…
Before I could even admit it I knew that this book was the one that changed my life…
No, more to be exact… Became my life.
But ten-year-old me did not know so.
I stopped turning the pages a week before the month's end simply stuck on the last words I read.
The rest is for you to write William Bond.
The words addressed me. No. No, they addressed a William Bond. There were several William Bonds in this world and not just me. But I knew of no other William Bond than myself. So I say the words were addressed to me.
I had only read the book once and dared not touch it for the entire last week. It scared me to think that someone out there knew my name and had written it addressed to me. Only on the last day of the month did I walk to the library and turn the book in—not opening it for even an instant.
I wished to forget every word of the book, even its existence.
It scared me.
It scared me more than the sound of my parents yelling behind me pushing me forward.
It frightened me to the bone more than turning my head around to understand why they had pushed me.
I couldn't hear anything. Their lips moved. I fell to my knees.
My parents were trampled over by others running out of the library in a frenzy.
And before I knew it I lost consciousness slipping down the yellow-colored concrete stairs to the great library.
When I came to, all I saw was bloody orange and red. The library was up in flames. I did not need anyone to tell me that it had been bombed. The burning smoke, the falling wood, the shattered windows, and the crushed bodies of my parents with a smile directed towards me spoke more than the towering man beside me.
It hurt… It hurt… It hurt…
I looked up. The sky was gray and I lost consciousness once again.