an unusual guest @mnstrsqd
Oliver had been marking recent sales in his massive hardcover ledger, an exercise in patience. He was, as the young people said, old fashioned. He wrote with a Montblanc dressed in a deep maroon wood with gold accents. Twenty-four karat gold, the man had bragged. Oliver had returned later and killed him. He had driven a ballpoint Pelikan through each eyeball until they had buried in the velvet softness of the brain. The ear was an easier route, but it lacked poetry.
He had the nib custom ground to an extra fine point, his lettering precise. He was not a man of the internet and cellular devices. He did not desire the potentials of instant communication around the globe. It was an invasion. It allowed no time to think, to consider. A letter may take weeks to arrive and in that time each word may be measured, considered, examined. There a single telephone with a rotary dial in his shop, it's cord tucked discreetly away behind a shelf. A necessary evil. His secondary occupation occasionally required that he make phone calls. He would have preferred to be without it, but his underground connections did allow him to keep his shop and home in relative peace.
There was no concern for the amount of books he sold, the number of customers he drew in through the doors. His selection had never appealed to a mass market. There was little fiction lining the hardwood shelves, what he did keep came from historical depths and interested few. He had added a few essays on criminal profiling in recent days. It was important to keep track of police methods, to some extent. There was nothing about prison that Oliver found to be of interest. Occasionally, on quiet nights, he considered what his criminal profile might say. He was not a vain man, but he was human, and it was human to be curious, was it not? He was careful not to let it control him entirely. There were many things he was careful of.
His right hand began to ache. Scars could be so troublesome. Oliver capped his pen and set it aside, using his left to massage the reddened skin, pulled taunt over the last few fingers of his right hand. The twisted scarring raced up his hand and disappeared under the sleeve of his pristine button down shirt. Oliver did not think of it often. He uncapped the pen and continued his work with his left hand. It made no difference. After his healing all those years ago he had adapted.
"Adaptation. Noun. An organism or species becomes better suited to its environment."
A murmur, barely above a whisper. His only company was his books, this did not matter. It was calm. His dark twin slept within, a comfortable rest. Oliver reminded himself to look inward from time to time, lest the creature escapes his attention and brings the wrong kind to themselves.
The jingle of the bell above the door and his gaze turns up. His eye glints silver before Oliver lifts his head entirely.
A small man. Midget. Dwarf. Pygmy. Homunculus. Elfin. Lilliputian. Words run through his mind before falling into cool silence. Oliver takes in the stranger. Hair like fire boiling around his head, peaked ears peeking through the flames. His features give the impression of being hewn from an ancient and angry wood, carved by skilled but violent hands. The abundance of green in his dress offers a chaotic holiday vibe.
His unborn twin? Surely not. This is no time to check.
“Hm.”
A quiet sound of consideration. Oliver caps his pen a second time, setting it aside, closing his ledger. He laces his fingers together and rests them on the dark leather of the cover.
