My Inferno

I walked into my room, exhausted from a long day. I peered around looking at my bed, my closet, the dresser, the annoyingly bright light, my brother laying on his bed reading a book, “What are you reading?” I said, casually.

He lifted the book, just enough for me to see the cover, and kept reading. I looked at it and did a double-take, there he was, reading one of my favorite books. An inferno of hate, jealousy, and disgust coursed through my mind. He dared read it. He dared pick it up without my permission.

It was mine. I couldn't stand the fact that he had intruded into the world that belonged to me. I hated him for it. He read it, not comprehending the plot, mispronouncing the characters' names. They were mine.

He read more of my books. The inferno raged.

I couldn't stand it, I felt like he was picking off my body parts, I clung to the books I had left,dreading when he would take them. I learned that the hardest thing to share is a book.