This next story from my unpublished Flasher collection was written almost a year ago, and yet it is still very relevant. My Book Purge donation pile grew at an alarming rate and I started to wonder if my husband was going to kick me and the books out.
So this story goes out to all the readers with uncontrollable book collections and daunting TBRs.
Side note: can you tell what my favourite Edgar Alan Poe story is?
Amontillado
I suppose I deserve this. Should’ve seen it coming a mile away. He said it was either him or the books. Guess I chose books.
I’ve been a book collector ever since I could read. Of course, I’m a reader too, but as my good friend likes to point out: book reading and book collecting are two very different hobbies.
There are now… seven? Seven bookshelves in my apartment. And they’re all stacked on top of one another to maximize space.
Then, there’s the books that aren’t on the shelves. Under my bed, piled up beside my desk, in the kitchen cupboards, under my bathroom sink.
My husband thought it was getting out of control. I reassured him that it was fine. Promised I wouldn’t buy more.
Of course I bought more.
I was threatened with the usual barrage: sleeping on the couch, divorce, and – my favourite – he’d throw them all out the next time I left the house. He never followed through on any of those threats. I wish he had.
Instead, he planned something worse.
That day, I came home to a glass of wine and the prettiest book from my TBR waiting for me by the comfiest chair in the apartment. I hid the books I had just purchased under my sweater as I thanked my husband for such a kind gesture. Thankfully, he wasn’t watching me, and I was able to sneak my latest haul under the chair as I sat down. He was fussing with something at his desk nearby.
I asked him if he was building another model and his reply was a vague “sort of”. But he assured me he wouldn’t bother me if I wanted to spend the time reading.
Of course I did. It was a book that I’d been waiting years to read. Not because it took years to come out, but because it had been sitting on the self, untouched, for so long.
I cracked the spine and set to work. It was even better than the reviews and the influencers said it would be. Between being so engrossed in the story and the lightheadedness from the wine, I completely forgot my husband was even in the room. It wasn’t until I started to lose light to read by that I noticed what was happening.
I looked up from the page to ask him to turn on a lamp, and that’s when I saw it. He didn’t build a model; he built a wall. Of books. My books. Their spines faced me, boxing me in. The only window I had was a small opening that my husband was methodically filling with more books.
He smeared what looked like plaster onto one book and placed the next one down on top of it. I banged at the wall of books, but his work was solid. He must have added additional reinforcements on the other side.
I begged and pleaded for him to let me out, crying and promising that I would never buy another book as long as I lived. He told me he believed me, as I would be spending my last days on earth entombed in my collection.
As he slid the last book in place, sealing me in and shrouding me in darkness, he reminded me that he had given me a choice: him or the books.
