**This is a story about how books helped me deal with my abusive ex, consider this a trigger warning!**
The first book out of seventy-four is a book from my childhood, Eragon by Christopher Paolini. Now, rereading it symbolizes my return to my roots. A necessary step backward instead of a step forward. Returning to the times when I was happy, to the times when I joyfully got lost in the story every day. Since those times, over ten years have passed until book number one on my list. Six years spent in depression, four years in the arms of a monster.
The last book, book seventy-four is Billy Summers by Stephen King, it has no connection to my past, but it was really fucking good so I am mentioning it anyway.
I don’t care what book I’m reading; what matters is that I can read it. What I read before my escape wasn’t my choice. Everything I did of my own will was punished. I remember secretly reading short internet stories in the kitchen on the floor. I listened for footsteps, ready to quickly hide the phone, never at ease. Even when I was home alone, I listened to the unmistakable sound of keys turning. They were mostly stories about love and family. Two things promised to me but never fulfilled.
Now I know that a person like them can’t love anyone. Certainly not like I loved them, devotedly and with my whole soul, regardless of myself. I sacrificed years to her, years that still pass by. Physically, we’re no longer together, but some wounds take a long time to heal. Love isn’t enough; love alone won’t save a relationship. And just as love isn’t enough, neither is running away.
I grabbed a backpack, passport, phone, and jacket. In the backpack was, coincidentally, my Kindle and wallet, that was all. But there was, after all, a book right at the epicentre of it all. I waited until they went into the shower, grabbed their keys, quietly unlocked the door, left them inside the lock from the inside, and ran to the nearest tram stop. I felt their gaze from the window as I was speed-walking down the street. Surely, I was going to be caught, and locked up again.
I jumped on the first tram I saw and got off at the next stop. To this day, I still struggle when passing the stop. Unfortunately, it’s in the city centre, and not easy to avoid. Some days are better; I remember what happened only when the automatic voice alerts passengers to disembark. Some days are worse; I count the stops and nervously watch all the passengers boarding several stops ahead.
Seventy-four books have passed since my escape. I’ve read some books for over six months, and others in just one day. Each of them is another step toward freedom. I read everything, popular science literature, fantasy, sci-fi, award winners, and bizarre underground creations. I no longer have to limit myself. Whether I am choosing a book or what to do in my life. Each of them, all seventy-four, are a proof of my inevitable victory over the wound they left in me; each book is my free choice. Not their command, not their recommendation, not their idea or a friendly suggestion. Not them. They are all me. Some are good, some are bad, but all are expressions of my free will.
I paved my endless path with them; I’ve already gone through over seventy. I look ahead, search for which one to place next, focus on my goal. But I don’t forget to look back; after all, seventy-four books are quite a journey. One day, I’ll place a book with my own name on the cover among them; it will mark the path for others, those who come after me. They will pave their own way, from their own books and their own decisions. Maybe they won’t like my book, maybe they’ll love it.
But just like one of my current icons said, they will know that they are not alone. None of us are.
by Quirky_Season8000