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Itís Friday. I donít like Fridays. Sure, Friday means the weekend with two days of not working and thatís fine with me, because I donít enjoy work. It pays the bills so I canít complain, but having to act as a shipping clerk for ten hours a day, five days a week, means the fun wears out fairly quickly. The reason I donít like Fridays is because everyone is hurried; there is always that something to do. Couples are going out to movies; friends are hanging out at fast food joints; somewhere a cocktail party is in full swing. Then thereís me, this guy whoís not unattractive but wouldnít pass for handsome in anyoneís book. I guess I could be called a nonentity, which is okay. Iíve never been in need of attention; Iím usually alone, but not usually lonely. Anyway, I still donít like Fridays. Itís not that I crave any important plans; just something to do for a few hours, something amusing. I havenít been amused in a while.

Iím walking past the library and I notice a message on their billboard outside: Crime Victims Come Together and Tell Their Stories, Register Inside. Iím curious, so I go inside. I havenít been in the library for ages, so Iím stunned by the fact that everythingís the same. The card catalog is right where I left it, the non fiction section hasnít moved and neither has the fiction, the checkout counter is the exact same, they even have the same tacky nameplates at each checkout booth. There are only two things different; there is a small CD collection next to the musty old seats where people can read, and there are boxy computers within each booth that hummed constantly.

The place is deserted and there is one lone librarian at the last checkout booth. I can hear the clicking of the keys on the keyboard as I come closer. I realize when I approach the counter that even the librarians havenít changed. This one is still wearing the same kind of clothes I remember despising at least ten years ago; she has a pressed white blouse topped with an atrocious brown cardigan and pleated nave blue skirt. Her gray hair is up in a tight bun and her glasses have black plastic frames. These arenít the trendy plastic frames that are featured in Gucci and Versaci; these are the beat up old frames from some dark time in the 70ís.

ďCan I help you?Ē Her voice is so ragged my fingers start to grip the fake wood of the booth counter. Iím sure sheís been smoking since she was four, the rattle in her throat might come from two shrunken lungs clacking together.

ďI wanted to sign up for the victims meeting.Ē

Her eyes slide from my head down to my feet and back, ďWhat was the crime committed against you?Ē

I pause for a second and then reply, ďI was stabbed.Ē

The womanís eyes dip up and down once more at me. She takes a clipboard lying on the desk and writes down the fake name I give her. I donít have a reason to give her a fake name; I guess if Iím going to make up a story about being stabbed I might as well create a whole new character.

I nod and am about to say thank you, but the librarian has already forgotten about me and has busied herself with the computer again. I pocket the form and smile; I have something to do on Friday.

Hey! This isn't the end of the story. If anyone finds this piece interesting, please tell me and I will make sure to post more. Thanks!


The following comments are for "The Victim"
by Icyspice652

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