The Things You Find

By Spectra16

A/N: This thing has been haunting me, keeping me up at night, disturbing my thoughts and dreams, keeping my from my studies, affecting me. It affects me, several simple moments of my life could disturb me so wholly. I cannot not allow you to understand what I felt inside, but I will try to describe it with words, and maybe you will understand. This is a true story about several moments of my life that have changed my idealistic heart into a determined, angry person that maybe I truly am.

Read this, and change the things that you find. I cannot sit around any longer, for it might drive me mad. This is a story about sexual abuse. This is a story about the supernatural qualities of life, or perhaps what the imagination gives your mind in order to change your perspective.

Warning: Rape, psychological torture and murder involved. My story will become your story.

-.-.-.-.-.-

Shelving books at a library is seemingly easy and carefree. Every Wednesday and Thursday, I collect books from the many shelves of the library and pack them away for patrons. I reshelf books that people have checked out. The job is easy, a simple matter of being attentive for three hours to tiny little letters and numbers on the spine.

This job is an idealistic one. Many of my friends desired to work here at this small town's learning center. And for some sick twist of fate, I was employed and quite happy about the whole ordeal. I assumed only firemen and doctors and soldiers saw the most painful of sights. One would not think a librarian to see these things at their job. We smile politely at people we don't know, we put books back (a very thankless job) and we know no pain?

I'd worked there for about two and a half months now, plenty of time to get to know everyone. On this day, I was filling in for another girl who was too sick to come to work. I didn't usually work on Tuesdays of course, but it seemed like the same schedule I had. It was, essentially. I had not realized that this day would be so painfully different.

Beth is a very tiny, kind woman who usually worked on Tuesdays, and I rarely got to see her, but secretly, she was my favorite librarian. She always had something nice to say to everyone, and her smile was so bright and had not faded over the years of her life. Ever since I moved to this town, I knew she worked at the library.

I pushed my book cart passed her and a man in a dirty white t-shirt came up to the desk and started talking.

"Can I go talk to someone upstairs? Okay, thanks," He quickly walked back to the children's section. I looked at Beth, who apparently had said nothing to the man, but had a look of fear on her face, one which I was not accustomed to seeing. She shook her head and I bothered to ask her what was wrong.

"Oh, I don't know," She said in a distressed way. This was all very odd to me, having only seen her cheerful side. In a low whisper, she continued. "It's that man. He's so strange." She said with shivers.

"How so?" I asked. She pressed her lips together and kept whispering.

"He talks about really weird things. Half the time, I don't think he's talking to me," She replied. I bit my lip and walked my cart over to the wall, eyeing the man in the white, wrinkled shirt. He was over by the children's videos talking to a very small girl. I lurched forward, I still don't know why. I had no idea who the man was or who this girl was, but I already assumed so many things about him and her. I nearly jumped over the counter and charged toward the man in anger, but I didn't understand these feeling. I saw something after that, which made me freeze up in panic. The man was checking her diaper. He was either her father or . . . I assumed the worst. I turned back to Beth, who was busily checking in books.

"Does that man know that girl?" I asked stupidly. Beth sighed. I kept watching him carefully.

"Unfortunately, yes. They come here regularly. It's good that you're keeping an eye out though. We always have to look for strange things like that," She patted me on the shoulder and continued working. I stood there like I was no longer human but stone. I couldn't believe what I was hearing her say. She wasn't going to do anything? This was normal? Hasn't anyone complained? I don't want to be congratulated for being on the look out! I want to do something! A million thoughts (mostly feelings of anger) swirled through my mind at a frightening pace.

"But," I squeaked. Beth checked in books, beep and beep.

"Sometimes he takes her into the bathroom and . . . She starts screaming bloody murder. I don't like it one bit. But," She shrugged as if to say "That's the way thing go". I shook madly at that thought, and suddenly, my mind made up more than I wanted it to.

I imagined this poor, little, adorable girl who couldn't have been more than four, screaming for her life in the bathroom stall, her father raping her senselessly. I immediately felt sick. The tiny bathroom I checked every night before closing had once been inhabited by a psycho. I looked at him again with a new sense of hatred. I didn't know this man at all, for all I knew, it all could've been a coincidence, but then, I knew better. My mind was playing tricks on me. It wanted me to run at that man and kill him, right then and there. I couldn't stare at him any longer because I was driving myself mad with hate.

All my life, no matter what hardships came my way, I always found happiness in life, and for some reason, very few times had I ever been truly angry at someone. I think that this day, I was angry enough to kill him. It was the most anger I'd ever felt in my life. And what I discovered, other than the fact that I could learn anything at any time, was that the rage felt good. I wanted to make him suffer for something that he might not even have done. I can't decide, even today, if what I saw in my head was just a fanciful illusion of my mind, or as if by some supernatural force, I knew what had happened before.

I grabbed my cart of books and hurried shoved it past the man and the little girl on my way to the elevator. They were checking out the books and movies she had picked. Oh, how I hated him for whatever he did or didn't do. I prayed that he'd turn around and see the dirty look I was giving him as the elevator door closed. And he did. He looked straight into my cold, enraged eyes to look back at himself. I wanted to flood his mind with pain. I immediately found that I wanted his phone number to threaten him everyday verbally. I wanted to take my little pencil that I checked off books with and shove it into his skull. I wanted him to go to jail and get raped by a large man mercilessly. I wanted revenge for a little girl I didn't even know.

The elevator opened again with a simple ding. I walked out with my cart of books into the empty columns of books where I worked so often. I went into the far back corner with a few books in hand, and shuddered at my thoughts of murder. After begging for forgiveness, I started crying. Not weeping. I wailed, covering my own mouth so that no one would hear my in the corner. I could hear her. She was screaming in my head. Looking at me with cold, unhappy eyes that no child should have. She was asking for my help. She wanted me to save her. And I wanted to save her too.

I fell to my knees and tears streamed down my face. I begged for forgiveness, and a chance to avenge her. I threw my books across the floor and just cried. The last time I'd cried so hard was for the death of my mother. I thought a carefree job as a book shelver would be an escape from reality. But I was wrong. Pain is everywhere. I didn't want to be in the real world where I might get hurt.

And now I realize that I want to be there. I want to help someone. I want to save that little girl, even though I don't know her name. I will sit through sleepless nights until I can do something. I will suffer from this. I am insane for her.

I will write the rest of this story once I find her again. I will write about how I saved her. She will not be the victim in this story. If she remains a victim, I remain a victim too.