A crack like thunder roared in the silent library. A large metal bookcase came crashing down. It groaned as it fell into other bookcases causing them to fall like a child's game of dominoes. People screamed and ran for cover, but not all were fortunate to escape. The metal supports that held the bookcase to the wall were twisted into impossible angles. They were sharp and jagged. We had the bookcase put in not to long ago and it was brand new. There should have been no way for it to have fallen like it did. I was on the second floor balcony when it started to fall. It shook the ground under my feet and books fell from the wall.

      I was lucky they said. The police officers said. They continued to ask me questions with answers I could not give. I was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a bright orange blanket draped over my shoulders. They said it was for shock. Some people managed to make it out alive or just injured, but others weren't so lucky. They were still pulling people from the wreckage. I keep thinking back on the bookcase when it fell. Its supports were brand new and still shiny from manufacturing. Yet they were twisted into impossible angles that were sharp and gleaming with a malicious glee.

      Here I sit writing all this down because my therapist says that I'm broken and that this will help me. I don't think I'm broken. I just have to relive the memory of the falling bookcase with its sharp twisted angles in my dreams. I finally close the book and sit back. The plain little journal seemed so innocent when I first started writing in it for therapy. Now however it has become the bane of my existence. I can't stand it. The little book seems to mock me from wherever I throw it. I've tried to give it back to my therapist, but she says that I need to keep it for my mental health.
 

      Days have passed since the problem at the library and I just can't seem to bring myself to go back to work. See I work or worked, I suppose, at the library and I just can't seem to drag myself back there. I need the money, I truly do. I keep worrying that another bookcase may fall and I will be one of the few unlucky ones to get caught this time. It scares me greatly whenever I think about it.

      Going back to the library was rough, but I managed to get back into my routine. I've never realized just how much I missed the musky smell of old books and old perfume that some of the older ladies wore. I've forgotten that I'm usually the youngest person in there most of the time if you don't count the occasional high school kid showing up for a research project. I'm glad I'm done with all that. My parents would always say that if I didn't go to college that I would wind up flipping burgers somewhere with no money and seven cats. I don't know why they thought I'd have cats. I don't even like them. The police are still crawling around like a bunch of roaches. God I hate them. They keep watching me while I try to work. I refuse to go back near were the bookcase was. They have already replaced it, but instead of a steel one they put in a classic wood one. The wood one looks nicer then the other.

      So I went to therapy today and while I sat in the overstuffed chair with the tacky print I looked over my therapist's desk to see her notes on me. One stood out the most to me. "Emotionally and mentally unstable, best to seek further advice from others," it said. I'm unstable now. How is that? I seem fine and it seems like my therapist doesn't know what she's doing if she's taking such horrid notes on me. I don't even talk to her all that much, I have no reason to. If she wants information on the accident there are plenty of news articles about it. I've kept all the news articles that I could find on the accident and it seems nobody knew how it happened just that it did. Is it bad to collect those things? I... don't believe it is. At least I don't think so....

      I don't know what to do! I can't take this not knowing any longer. The book case and its stupid twisted metal supports haunt me. I can't. I just can't. What am I suppose to do? The cops are still crawling around the library and it's been so long since everything happened. I'm beginning to think that it was all my fault. I was angry that day and I wanted to tear that library apart piece by piece. That filthy place full of undeserving people who do nothing with their lives. The therapist. She doesn't know what she's talking about. She says that I need more help then she can give and that I should go and see someone else for help. She can't do anything right. She's just like all the other undeserving people. She believes that she is helping people and that her life is all about helping those who need her false guidance the most. She is nothing to me. Not after what I've done.

      I did it. I've finally did it. I've gotten rid of that pesky therapist. She was getting to close to the truth. She wanted something from me. I made sure that she will never find out. The police are searching for her now. But they will never find her, I made sure of it. I'm surprised that anyone noticed her gone. She had no family to speak of in this town and she didn't have contact with family in another town or anything. She didn't even have many friends. Everybody disliked her just as I did. But now that that is over with I can be happy and continue my work at the library. It's so peaceful there now. Nobody around, but me. No gossiping old ladies, no bedraggled mothers, no screaming children with no manners, and no hormonal high school kids. I don't have to worry any longer. I can finally be happy.

      Its so nice here all in white. Those pesky people found out and took everything from me. Now I have to been alone at last. I've waited oh so patiently for this. Those impossible angles from a torn up bookcase started it all. Just with a few choice words given to me by my lovely therapist. I'm so happy now.  Now let me tell you a little secret.

      I did everything.