The Abandoned Book

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sherlock is telling the story from his point of view. Sherlock is a book, but what happens when his owner that has kept Sherlock for so long decides to get rid of him?

Submitted: February 08, 2012

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Submitted: February 08, 2012

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Some of the other desk objects used to ask me what my biggest fear was. I would normally answer with, "I don't know" because, truly, as a Sherlock Holmes book, I didn't know at that very moment. Of course, I should have known beforehand, considering I sort of was "Sherlock Holmes." Today was just a typical day for all of us desk objects, or at least for most of us. The sun shone brightly through the white bordered window, around the ecru colored walls of the room. In the morning, we sat still as our Master came in and sat down on the black leather chair with a grunt, as he always did. We all noticed that his black hair was starting to gray at the tip, the area near his forehead. Master brought out his dark brown briefcase, the one he always carried. Each of us desk objects greeted the briefcase with a spry hello. A few minutes later, after Master had taken out his work papers for the day and placed them gently on the mahogany desk, I questioned the briefcase of his welfare. "Hey Byron," I asked, "How's work so far?"
"Eh, been pretty hard. Master's boss is really stressing Master out. Giving him work to do overtime. I get a lot of papers now." Byron, the briefcase, replied. "How about you Sherlock? Anything new?" He asked.
I thought for a few moments before exclaiming, "Master is almost done reading me. I've never really thought about it. I'm sure he only has about seventy pages left in me and-" Just at that very moment, Master lifted me up from my well used corner on the beautiful mahogany desk and opened me to the where he had previously read, removing the bookmark from my delicate pages. Thus, Master began to flutter through my pages quite quickly; Master was a speed reader after all.
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I think an hour must have gone by, since I just woke up from a small nap. Byron was gone; Master must have taken him to work for the day. I was once again placed on the corner of the desk, but something didn't feel right. It wasn't my position; I was on my back, as I had always been left. It was inside of me. Something that had been there for quite a while, and had kept me company and conversed with me while the other desk objects slept... Out of the blue, it hit me, with a pang of pain to my heart. Little Branwell was missing; the small forest colored bookmark that had resided in my pages for so long. Feeling tears come up to my eyes, as I actually was a picture of Sherlock on the cover, I suddenly heard a small sniffling. It slowly grew louder, in volume and multitude. I soon realized it was the desk objects; my dear friends. Why were they crying? "Sherlock." Steven , the stapler, said with a solemn look upon his face. "I have grave news for you, my friend."
"We all do." Exclaimed Palila, the elegant amethyst colored pen with beautiful silver edges, who always spoke of her life soon coming to an end, as her indigo ink was running low quickly.
"Sherlock! Sherlock! Don't leave us! We beg of you!" The paperclips suddenly burst out, while still in their oval shaped glass case. The afternoon sun cast a glint on the case; a cloud must have then covered the sun, for the room sadly grew dimmer. In the now somewhat darkened room, Levin, the young but wise seashell colored lamp, with his majestic Navajo white shade upon his head, switched on his light. However, I felt that instead of this helping me be able to see properly, I felt that the light eerily cast a shadow upon the grim faces of my friends of early childhood.
"Master has no need for you anymore," Levin said, his eyes downcast on the desk he stood upon. "You are to be thrown away, for you are no longer of any use." He said.
The crying ended then, with only the small colorful paperclips sniffling away. The desk objects listened intently for my reaction. I, on the other hand, was in shock. Thrown away? Me, the famous Sherlock Holmes, into the garbage? My book cover was wet with tears that had escaped my eyes. "How?" I asked them, without looking away from the ceiling. "Is this my fate? To be used and then abandoned?" My already soaked book cover soon became soggy at the contact of my tears on its carmine cover. The desk objects found themselves crying once again, while turning away in shame and grief. Suddenly, we heard the door of Master's office open, and directly froze into, tears still flowing down my face. Master walked in casually, tossing Byron onto the desk, Byron landing with a thud.
Byron glanced at the desk objects, who were still crying and mourning in silence, and then to me, with a questioning look. "What is wrong, my friend?" He asked, worry in his voice.
"My fate has been decided for me, I suppose." I replied, trying to hide the sorrow in my voice yet failing. What kind of Sherlock Holmes am I? I'm crying and all soggy; I'm weak, instead of ready for any obstacle that comes my way. Master came up to the mahogany desk and noticed the tears on the desk, and the lighted lamp in which he hadn't turned on, then sighed.
"I told little Molly not to enter my office while I'm working. Why does she come into Daddy's office while I'm not here? Did she pour water onto my desk?"
He asked. Shaking his head, he sighed, then suddenly spotted me. "Mm? Oh yeah, I was going to throw this book away." Upon laying his hand upon Sherlock's cover, he pulled his hand away in disgust, his nose crinkling up as if he had just had smelt a horrible odor, for my cover was soaked in my tears.
"Ugh, the book's in even worse condition now. Old worthless piece of junk." Now, I was indeed a bit tattered, but I certainly wasn't old, only about twenty years old to be precise! Once again, Master reached out to me and lifted me up from the corner of the desk that I had so dearly called home for so long. The desk objects wailed, and I'm sure that if they had arms, they would be flailing them about; I'm sure of it.
"The time has come for my destiny to be fulfilled. I'm glad to have known you all." I exclaimed, a smile plastered upon my face. This would be the last time I would see the office, and this home. My time here was done. The volume of the wailing increased as my distance grew farther from the desk, and as Master closed the door to his office, I heard Byron yell, loudly and clearly: "May you have the best of luck, my dear friend!"
Master carried me outside. The sun lied low on the horizon; it was indeed a beautiful sight. The dumpster truck had come; my end was near. I remembered Palila at the moment, and cried for the last time. Master, no, this man, about thirty years of age, looked down at me; I stared back blankly with tears still streaming down my cheeks. When he threw me into that pit where I was crushed, the last thing I heard was a small murmur from the man: "We had some great adventures, Sherlock."
Some of the other desk objects used to ask me what my biggest fear was. I would normally answer with, "I don't know" because, truly, as a Sherlock Holmes book, I didn't know at that very moment. However, now I do, as I am not with them now, and my biggest fear is truly the feeling of being left alone and abandoned.


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