Mail is not something I get…frequently or really at all: I work online and get paid online, everything with my doctors is online because going to appointments or their offices isn’t something I enjoy doing among…multiple other reasons, even my groceries and things are delivered, usually that’s the only mail I really get. I only go out to get something if it’s a bit of an emergency.

So, when I opened the door to a knock the next afternoon, I didn’t know what to expect and a fairly hefty set of textbooks was far from when I had the idea of what could have been out there. I slid the bundle, it was wrapped in brown soft butcher’s paper, the soft texture to it showing it was treated to stave off the water and tied tightly with a doubled-up wrap of twine, a very old school manner of it being packaged, a hefty tag on it had my name and address on it, so I knew it was for me, but as I turned the tag over to see if there was a return address on it, there was, but the text on the other side of the tag was in a shimmery ink and the address was nowhere I recognized and the city on it wasn’t Seattle, but Rook.

“We…crave…retribution”

I set the bundle on the counter as I undid the twine tying, I pulled the paper away from the bundle which revealed a thick stack of…maybe five-six substantial books, by their publishing dates on the front pages, they were recent prints and the manner of which they were written and looked, they weren’t “textbooks” in a collegiate sense, but more along the lines of one of those “how to” books or something along those lines. The books had block texted titles across the front covers and down their spines.

The Basics of Magic

Handling Life Between Nonmagical/Magical cities

The Forms and Styles of Magic

Living Magic: Finding Magic as an Adult

            They were interesting titles without a doubt, the text that went across the pages while obviously machine printed like any modern book, there was a definite older vibe to the manner of the font on the pages, like they chose to be printed in an older style font, more along the lines of what would be used for a printing press or those ornately hand-written hand-copied books that you see in museums that had been written by some monk somewhere with strange doodles or drawings of animals that made one assume that the monk had never stepped foot outside of their monastery because of how odd or wrong they looked.

I sighed softly as I put some water on to make some tea as it turned out that I had a day of reading heading forward. I know that the people at S.P.E.L.L would be surprised if someone was actually able to parse through these books, something that people just brushed off the books and went off on their own, but I am one of those weirdos who actually does read the manuals of whatever I get so, I was going to read these books properly and as I should do. I just grabbed the top book, The Basics of Magic, and sat back on the couch and put my feet up as I started reading as the water was heating.

“Free…us…from…the…darkness…”

Luckily, I am a very quick reader and I’m able to still take in all of the information I was reading. I hold the book with one hand as I let my nail trail down the page, even with the first letter of each line and read at the speed at which I moved my finger down the page. I quickly went through the pages as I read everything. It was a much more detailed way of all the information that the packet the hospital gave me. The packet had all the unneeded information removed from it to make it as quick to read and have people get what information is needed across…the book had way more detail to everything it talked about and much more diagrams, details and other pictures about the pages. By all means, it was not an entertaining read, but it was something to do for a larger stint of time, because of my thoroughness…the editing work I do never takes me more than a handful of hours for the largest of projects. I’ll edit anything too: people’s book drafts, various adverts, scripts…just about anything that could be edited. My training and practice in that field was constantly at the back of my head, pointing out points of the book where something could have been edited more concisely.

I wished I had picked up some more hobbies through my adolescence, but…nothing jumped out really as I grew up because something, no matter what it could be, made some form of a mess; painting, sewing, any kind of artform really proved too much of a mess for me to find any enjoyment in them, even when I worked as slowly as I could to make as little of a mess…my need to clean would interject wherever it could; I couldn’t dip a brush in paint without something telling me I had to clean it because using it for its purpose dirties it. Music was also something that I could not find comfort in because…well, I would clean the instruments my parents got me too far and end up damaging them from cleaning them too intensely. My parents told me stories when I was young, of when they would walk into a room where I was and I would be sitting on the floor, some toy or something around me that was entirely dismantled as even as a child, my obsession with cleaning made me break down those toys or pieces to clean their interiors…most of the time I would be able to put them back together, but some time’s I couldn’t put them back together. So…reading was my default, books were easy to take care of, they barely had any moving parts and various other aspects that made it so…reading was one of the few things I was actually able to find some solace in. Some quiet despite the constant chorus of voices at the back of my head.

The whistle of the kettle broke me from the stupor of reading and I got back to my feet, my socked feet quiet on the linoleum as I took the kettle off the stove and poured the hot water into a teapot, swirling it around the stoneware to cool the water as it was far too hot to properly make tea. I just rifled through what tea I had for whatever one was brewed at the highest temperature and made myself that even if it wasn’t exactly the kind of tea I wanted at the time. The pungent smoky scent of the tea, lapsong, rose up to my nose; heavily smoked, strong black tea that a lot of people do not like and some people compare the taste to what they would expect an ash-tray to taste of…but I grew up drinking it, so I do enjoy it. This kind of tea is the closest thing I could probably ever get to a smoking habit, though my need to clean would never allow me to even think about picking a cigarette up because of the fact my mind knows quite intensely of how filthy they are…so…smoked tea is the closest I’ll get. I just wrapped my hands around the handle-less mug as I sighed softly at the intense warmth of it that plumed through my palms as I sat back on the couch, looking down towards the dark tea as I glanced up to the TV across from me and in the reflection of the dark screen…I could have sworn there was movement behind me.