“So, how do I look?” Mandy pulls aside the curtain of the dressing room, revealing her top model figure. She poses in a low V-neck T-shirt and beige tight pants.

“Good.” You look hot, just like in the last twenty outfits. I would give anything for a body like that. I feel like she's intentionally trying to annoy me with her displeasure. My arms are almost torn off from the garments still waiting to be tried on or put back on.

“Just good? You think good will impress Alan on Saturday? Give me that black top.”

I'll hold out the full stole, indicating that she should help herself, because I don't have any free hands. She immediately spots the moodiness behind my gesture.

“What's the matter? You're so grumpy today.”

“I forgot to do the dishes yesterday and my mother is going to kill me.” I say, even though it's only one side of the coin.

“Have you not had the washing machine repaired since then?”

Seeing my expressionless face, she changes her tone:

“Oh... I'm sorry... Yes, you mentioned that after your Dad's accident, your Mum became even stricter.” She continues in a much quieter voice, mimicking sympathy.

Who knows, maybe she really wants to feel sorry for me. But it wasn't her father who killed himself. She has no idea how I feel.

“Give me those.” She takes the pile of clothes from me, and a few pieces fall off the top, their hangers clattering to the floor of the shop. I'm about to bend down to pick them up, but she is stopping me: “Leave it, I'll manage! Go and try on some something pretty! It always makes me feel better.”

You might. It must be a real joy for someone who could be on the cover of any fashion magazine to admire herself in the latest trendy clothes.

She's just trying to be nice, but I would like to slap her in the face. Why?

“Maybe some other time... To tell you the truth, I'm getting a bit worried about this dishwashing thing and what I'm going to get for it... So, if you don't mind, I'm going to...”

“Sure, you can go” She smiles.

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. All right, get going! See you at school tomorrow!” She winks at me.

The urge to start running from the maze of dressing rooms and racks is strong, but I force myself to remain calm and step out of the automatic doors at a normal pace into the white-lit aisle of shop windows. All around me, noisy young and middle-aged people freshly released from work bustle about, eating in the dining hall, shopping in snaking queues. Some show fatigue on their faces, but the majority are enjoying themselves, chatting and laughing, while I blink in bewilderment, trying to make my way to the exit as quickly as possible amid the waves of people.

As I exit the mall, I take a deep sigh of relief from the afternoon rush-hour petrol fumes. It's like bathing in the pink light of the sunset for the first time after ten years in prison. But my happiness vanishes as soon as I head for the bus stop. Dread creeps under my skin. If I get on, I'm not going to a dungeon, but straight to the gallows.

Yet I'm on my way.

As I stroll through the valley of glittering glass, high-rise luxury hotels and office buildings, my thoughts bury me deeper and deeper.

You should try on "something pretty"! The last thing I need…

I remember how Mum and Dad bought me the most beautiful clothes for every possible occasion in the naive hope that one day I would wear them and become like them. Normal. What my mother wouldn't give to have a daughter like Mandy! Who wears make-up, dates, plays sports, is social; a meaningful member of society. Someone she could talk to about nails, shoes, the scandals she read on the internet, instead of "you'll die alone" and "you'll be a garbage man" being the only common topics. An endless arsenal of schemes, tricks and restrictions have been deployed to steer me in a direction they think is better. They made me do chores, forced me to share garden parties with their friends, took away my pocket money so I wouldn't spend it on books, cut off the electricity, took away my laptop... They didn't even notice that the only result they achieved was an impenetrable wall between us.

Or maybe they just didn't want to notice.

David was the only one who understood me. That's why I'm wearing his sweatshirts instead of all the other expensive clothes. I feel safe in them. It's like when we used play ROTA, watch TV shows, read Harry Potter...

My heart clenches.

I have no idea why, I thought we would spend more time together after Dad died.

But no. Thanks to Sophie.

The last time I saw him was a month ago when I asked him to return my books to the library. I didn't ask him to take anything out for me; the grief was paralyzing me. I didn't feel like doing anything. Especially not to go out. I wanted to cease to exist.

How could I wish that he would not return home? On that day...

If it wasn't for school and Mandy, I'd probably still be curled up in my room.

The domes and huge windows of the library shine out from the bustle of vehicles.

Gosh, when did I get here?

What would Dad say?

My throat constricts, my stomach clenches into a ball.

I relive the terror as I hide erotic fantasies from him under the bed, in the closet, and then, when he finds them, he beats me with them. I feel the hard corners of the cover between my ribs.

I couldn't be the daughter he wanted me to be.

The weight of failure nails me to the asphalt.

Still... Everything that I am, that I've tried to lock away for a whole summer, trusting that time would eat it up, grows weary. Go on, do it! Get inside.

No. I have to go home, do the dishes and study.

That's what he'd want...

But he's dead. He's not here to scold me, beat me, judge me. And beating myself up won't bring him back.

A hot tear rolls down my cheek. I wish I could be someone else.

But I'm not.

I step across the threshold, fists clenched, trembling.

I breathe a sigh of relief. For the first time in years.

Freely.

The door closes behind me, cutting me off from the outside world. As the noises of the street fade, my conscience fades into silence. I'm lost in the smell of old papers. The mahogany furnitures, the calm of the peach-coloured walls, releases my cramped muscles.

I am home.

Full of new life, I step inside, pass the lending desk and the snack bar, and climb the cream-colored marble steps. As if out of habit, I stroke the shiny, worn wooden railing. I used to get out of breath and had to stop for a rest on the first floor, but now I reach the second floor at the same pace, without effort.

The orangey-pink of dusk flickers through the dome, casting a warm hue over the carved pine tables and the ferns hiding in the corners. At other times, a crowd of students, local and foreign alike, used to study here, engrossed in their textbooks and laptops, but now only two girls and a man read and take notes. It is unusual, yet I like that the large, Gothic interior is so empty.

I walk to the door of the left-hand section. Slowly, savoring every step. Once inside, I tiptoe between the floor-to-ceiling shelves, careful not to disturb the peace that has settled in. I run my fingers along the spines of a few books, soaking in the timeless dignity they exude. My eye catches a title.

Classicist architecture?

I frown. There should be something else here. It's been so long since I've been here I'd forgotten where to find fantasy books? No, there's no way. I've made the trip here hundreds of times.

A soft murmur rings in my ears from across the room. On the other side of the aisle, a tall, dark figure appears in the company of a library cart.