I was six years old the first time I heard him whisper strange things in the library
words I didn't understand, shadows of a language woven from liquor and regret.
But I told no one.
Grandfather escaped to the library to drink.
I escaped there to read
not to see him, but to disappear.
It was, perhaps, the smartest decision I ever made.
The library gave me everything I needed.
Even when I didn't find what I was looking for,
I found something greater.
I learned of stars, of chemistry, of plants.
Of the anatomy of humans and beasts.
Of machines and the mechanics behind them.
But to understand my grandfather,
I had to read philosophy.
Fiction, real or imagined.
They held the keys.
Books never betray you.
They are the only companions
that don't leave a blade in your back.
I suppose this belief
is a byproduct of my mother's betrayal.
Humans are contradictions.
And I'm what emerges when contradiction dies.