The Scream of A Thousand Libraries Chapter 55: Chapter 1: A really crazy girl.

Read chapter 55 of The Scream of A Thousand Libraries by Susangja on NovelPedia.

POV: HELENA IVYRA. There I was… another day waking up in the middle of the night, and sleepless, on top of that. Ugh… Why? Because of that classic anxiety about the next day. I'd done it so many times that, by now, it felt more like a habit or even a hobby than a real problem. "Ughhh… I'm so damn sleepy!" I mumbled, rubbing my eyes with my fingers, clearing away the sleep gunk of the previous night. I got up and went to the window. The room was bathed in a bluish dimness, broken only by the shy light of dawn peeking through the curtain's cracks. The bed, still warm behind me, let out soft wooden creaks, as if begging me to return. But I pressed on. The sun was barely rising and already hiding in the distance, dry and far, just an orange stain peering at the world. I carefully opened the curtain, letting the fresh morning air fill the room and push away the stuffy smell of the night. "It's strange to think how important that giant ball of fire is to us… and yet, it remains there, impassive. One of the main pillars of our spe— Ughh…" I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand. "I think it's better for me, to go use the other fundamental pillar of our race. Probably the most important one: the coffee!" I said as I was trying to sound more animated than I actually was. I left the room in silence. The hallway walls still held the chill of the dawn, and my feet made a slight dry sound on the ceramic floor. I reached the kitchen, which was small, modest, and filled with that eternal smell of old coffee and spices stored away for too long. The fluorescent light above the sink flickered once before steadying. In the corner of the counter rested the electric kettle, surrounded by a row of mugs and forgotten breadcrumbs from the previous coffee. I put water on to heat. The kettle's click cut through the house's silence like an arrow. I put two spoons of coffee into my green mug, the usual one, with its handle slightly cracked. Out of the corner of my eye, my gaze fell on the calendar stuck to the refrigerator door. Its paper was already yellowed at the edges, held by two magnets: one from SpongeBob and another from last year's university entrance exam. And there it was. Existence's most constant worker: time. It never stopped. It never rested. But it always, always moved forward. Even when alone, it flowed naturally in its own current… That's when I realized: it was already December 14th. The last day of classes for my second year of high school. "The long-awaited senior year is coming, huh…" I whispered, almost out of breath. At the same moment, a shiver ran down my spine. "Damn… I'm turning into an adult. I'm screwed, I'm screwed, I'm screwed!". "Wait… actually, it's not that bad, right? I don't think so… After all, being an adult is like wielding Thor's Mjölnir: it's a huge power, gives you some awesome abilities and a certain respect… The problem is you need to be worthy to use it. Or, I don't know… be a little crazy…". Chuu-chuu. The sound of the kettle pulled me back from my morning existential crisis. I turned my neck towards the noise. The water was bubbling strongly, releasing steam that fogged up the tiles behind the stove. I took a few hurried steps, turned off the kettle, and waited for the bubbles to stop. Then, I poured myself a cup of that simple coffee: two spoons, no sugar. Here at home, strong black coffee is a tradition. "Oops… damn it!" I said, spilling a little coffee on the dishtowel that was on the counter. "Oh, it's almost microscopic, no one will notice! Right?" I muttered to myself. With the mug in hand, I returned silently to my room. The hallway seemed colder than before, but maybe it was just reality giving me a thermal shock. As soon as I entered, I brought the fingers of my right hand together in the shape of a pincer. "Axiomatic Tessellation," I whispered, forming a line of connection between my fingers. The room, still dimly lit, was filled with a discreet glow. My Literary Mark, etched on my right wrist, s