Do Not Read

Alfred

Alfred Tate shuffled across the crisp, frozen field, awkwardly clutching his bag in one hand and a book in the other. It was afternoons like this he despised the most; the clusters of blathering girls huddled in their coats, the few couples aimlessly wandering around clutching mittened hands, the rowdy boys kicking a ball and screaming their lungs out on the football pitch waiting for the perfect opportunity to pull each other's shorts down. Alfred rolled his eyes, wondering how such hooligans or "fine, strapping young men" as his father called them, ended up with girlfriends. Surely these sort of larks were not strictly orthodox?

He finally ended at the school's library; a majestic, ivy-clad building, one of the oldest on campus. The inside, however, was something even more spectacular.

He inhaled the musty, wooden smell as he entered the building, books of every description piled high on endless mahogany shelves. The ceiling lamps hung low creating a somewhat enigmatic atmosphere; small pools of golden light vaguely existing on the thick, plush carpeted floor. There were just three others in the room; a blonde girl with thick rimmed glasses avidly reading one of Lemony Snicket's "Series Of Unfortunate Events", a scrawny young boy huddled up on a beanbag with various textbooks surrounding him; and finally Mrs Simmons, the old, decrepit librarian who seemed to be staring at nothing with her grey, glassy eyes. Alfred silently placed his book on her table, and quietly climbed the creaking stairs, tracing the handrail with his hand. He smiled and slumped onto a beanbag in his favorite part of the library, which to his embarrassment was the fantasy section. He wasn't one to admit it, but he adored the idea that a single book could transport oneself to an entirely parallel reality. Alfred started reading a year ago, when things started to get bad at home. Since then, he couldn't stop. It was as if one book could whisk him away and he could be anything he wanted.

He got up and walked through the thick shelves of books, touching the covers with his hands, his arms outstretched as he wondered what to choose to read next. As if by chance, a brown, battered book caught his attention. It contrasted so starkly with the many vibrant, chromatic books in its presence that Alfred's attention was immediately captured. He carefully pulled the book out of its slot and felt the rough, unsightly cover. A garish yellow post-note was carefully stuck on the front. "Do not read" it said.

Now, Alfred was by no means a "normal" teenage boy, as his father never ceased to remind him; he was above averagely tall, lanky, and had mad brown hair sticking out at various angles. He loathed any form of physical activity, and would much rather spend rainy days sitting outside writing poetry than staying in, watching films with his friends. He watched French movies instead of English, listened to vinyl records instead of CD's and had a fetish for strawberry yoghurt. However, his curiosity and inquisitiveness was exactly that of anyone his age. He gingerly opened the book, a putrid smell floating out in that way that old books have. He felt no regret in making this decision, nor did he feel any uncertainty in doing so. It was only a book; what harm could it do?

"Alfred Tate," Mrs Simmons' croaky voice called up the stairs "I'm closing up now."
Alfred hastily shoved the book into his briefcase, ignoring the fact that a bit of dust fell onto the floor. He glanced at his watch which read 6:23. He went back to the main part of the library where Mrs Simmons inquisitively asked "Find anything?"

"No," Alfred lied. He decided that it would be better not to mention the book that mysteriously instructed him not to open. And besides, it was one book of thousands in the library; it's not like Mrs Simmons would notice.