I am Ita. I cannot spell too well.

My name is Ita. I am Ita. All I have is my name. That I can spell.

I have not always been myself. At least not who I thought I was. I can’t expect you to know the difference. Maybe each of us are more people than we ever think.

I am also the City’s Librarian. An indisputable fact. We may converse later on this facet. I will give you access to the mind of a professional in her prime I promise but first let me deal with this bitch.

“Good afternoon Betty”

Yes that is a smile you see on my face. Fuck you. You come here Betty my employee, my cleaner, my false friend. You and your friends have been out to slaughter me.”

Good morning Ita.

Yes that is my name don’t wear it out you unmerciful geebag

Ita sucked in the air of her pain. Ita thought on her duties. Apart from the usual checkout and renewals she had collected certain books. This is a pertinent thing to remember so try not to forget. Most of their authors were long dead. Which again is a pertinent fact and safety of these books was not assured. Thus their memory was likely for the mortality drain. She had done so much and now how could she tell a cleaner about the weight of a librarians’ heart and how she locked herself in her office for a profound reason. Her writing was her work. She would have to face Betty down.

“Do you have no toilets to clean?”

The “Murder she wrote” theme song still rung in her head as she sat in front of a rusty unused typewriter. She stared up at Betty from her tablet. She resented the intrusion.

How is the novel coming along or is it a children’s book your writing eh?

“You would like to see wouldn’t you.”

Betty and I had a long running book club participation so we more familiar than was usual for persons of our standing.

“I imagine it has to be a work of art”. Betty picked her nose.

Ita lifted her tablet to show her work. Betty was confused by the light and miasma of words. It was blinding. Betty thought she might need new glasses. She took them off and licked them before rubbing them briskly.

Ita got slow to her feet.

“A Modern literature of ages. It has takes ages! I did everything by hand. I pick up my furry digital pen here and sat it in a sea of coloured illumination. No typewriters or keyboards for me!! You would love my freshly pixel painted electronic manuscript. I am dreaming dreams for you.”

“I am honored as I’m sure the world will be”

I looked out the window down the Finglas road.

“I’m nearly complete. It’s nearly done and now you chose your time Betty, this time, this particular fucking time to demand what was going on in my life.”

At this moment I unexpectedly wept. A bird fell from the sky.

Betty’s face did not drop.

Sometimes in life the universe decides what comes out of your mouth. And so I admitted it. I admitted where my writing had taken me:

“I killed him.

I turned to Betty.

And now I want to be left to die. I am a bad mother. I am a bad soul.


Water poured from the well of my mind down my cheeks and hit the floor in gushes.

“You might need to get mop”

The fucking cheek of her. Betty might die yet.


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