Jonathan Barkowski was slow to move from in front of the book shelf. Something seemed to have caught his eye, something that made his face contort.

It was like he was concentrating on the title. As if it confused him, but intrigued him at the same time. His chest barely moved when he breathed. If I knew him any better, I would have said he was taking really shallow breaths because he was anxious or upset.

His left hand moved up, but stopped only inches from the book. The hesitation of his action was magnified by the shakiness of his whole arm.

What was this book?

Suddenly, he shook his head adamantly. Jonathan took off running, down the aisle and out of the library.

I got up from my work station, and slowly moved towards the book shelf. What was so terrifying about a book, or it’s title?

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had just wandered into the biography section. I began to scan the shelf for anything that might have explained Jonathan’s actions.

Then, there it was. An old tattered book titled The Life and Death of Jonathan Barkowski, written by Lindsey Wright.

That was me.

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