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The rising sun shined brightly through the holes of the ratty old bed sheet covering the studio apartment window of Thomas James Murdock. The early morning sun acted as an alarm clock for the young man. As the bright beam of light crept up his bed and gradually, ever so gently, crossed over his closed sleeping eyelids, young Thomas stirred.

He was a normal looking man for a 21 year old. He had darker brown hair, almost black, but in the right light it was obvious it was brown. His face had a fierce look about it, he jaw line was sharp but he had a broad chin. It was  hard to tell sometimes though, because it was masked with facial hair, which actually made him look less intimidating. He had hazel eyes that anyone who’d looked into them would tell you they could pierce into your soul. There was no way to lie to this young man; one look at his face would show you he’d have known without a doubt whether or not you were sincere. He sat up with a slight, muffled cough, and allowed the sheets to tumble off his bare chest into his lap. The young man hunched forward slightly and rested his elbows in his lap. He placed his chin into the palms of his hands and took a glance around his humble dwelling.

There were countless books in the young man’s apartment. Most were stacked to the ceiling from the dark hardwood floors to the aging, peeling paint that separated him from the golden morning sky above. Thomas had a thing for his books, each of which was special to him. He regarded them as a dearly loved flame from the past. He could remember every single word he had read from each book he had ever brought home from work. One day they would be neatly shelved and organized. He’d always promised himself this much at least. He felt that leaving them on the floor, stacked haphazardly to the ceiling was somewhat disrespectful and he wanted desperately to right his wrongs against the talented authors who had lovingly and dedicatedly penned each piece of artwork he had collected.

Thomas had a little bit of everything in his sizable collection; from western dramas to murder mysteries, step by step how-to guides to generalized self-help manifestos. Whenever he stumbled across a book at work that he felt he simply could not live without he would add it to the scores of books in his personal library where he would promptly and efficiently devour it in an enthusiastic and aggressive fashion.

Besides the books his apartment was surprisingly barren. There was a luxurious old leather chair next to one of the large glass windows opposite the only door in and out of his apartment. The window overlooked the local park and in the background he could see the large, mountain landmark of his town rising out of the trees which were shading the park. It was a brilliant and inspiring view. At any time throughout the year there would always be a little snow at the peak of the mountain.

A large carpet rug covered most of the floor. It was essentially red but had golden, paisley-like markings framing it on the outside edges. Upon the rug sat a simple four-legged, square, wooden table with a couple of matching chairs around it. On the table were a couple dishes from Thomas’ home cooked dinner the night before and a few books he had been in the process of devouring. Several texts on human anatomy still lay open on the table and nearby a ragged old notebook had various notes scrawled out on the pages.

Thomas yawned, arching his back a little and threw off the rest of the covers from his bed. He walked over to the kitchen, flipped on the coffee maker and then made his way into the shower.

The cool water soothed his arms and back, still slightly sore from carrying boxes of books around at work the day before. It had been a hard day but he enjoyed the work. The rigorous workload reduced his need to seek out a gym, mostly because he’d come home physically exhausted, but ultimately it was because of all the heavy lifting he had to do on a regular basis made the need for a daily workout routine unnecessary.

Books weren’t the only thing Thomas held dear to himself. He considered himself an artist as well. On his days off he’d spent countless hours pouring his creative self onto paper with bits of charcoal. What had started out as random doodles and scribbling quickly became something more. Ever since he was little Thomas had been able to start, break apart, and master any skill he found some interest in. Where this ability came from he wasn’t so sure, but he was thankful for it regardless.

Thomas shut off the water, dried himself off with a soft, blue towel that had been hanging from the door of the shower above him, and stepped out of the shower on to the cool tile floor. He took a moment to survey himself in the mirror, before him showed how far his physique had come since he started working at the book store two years earlier. He had an athletic build, not too overly massive, but also not in any way just the skinny little kid he once had been back in high school. Thomas resented those days, they felt like a huge waste of time to him and realistically they were, but in hindsight he felt he could have taken advantage of those simpler times more.

They had been full of more opportunities; there was easier access to friends, no bills to pay, and more time to read. He’d always gotten A’s in his classes. He’d never had issues as far as that was concerned. It was actually in high school where he discovered he had a photographic memory. When a teacher gave him required reading in class to take home, every single word, diagram, and picture stayed with him. He never had to study because of this. He’d finish each and every homework assignment by the time he got home and he’d ace every single test issued. For awhile he actually would miss a few questions on purpose so his teachers wouldn’t think he was cheating. After he got his first B ever he snapped out of this and started to simply ace all his tests again. He decided if there ever was a question about the legitimacy of his scores he could easily prove he wasn’t using a cheat sheet.

Thomas pulled his shaver out of the drawer built into the counter and proceeded to trim off all the fuzz that had grown on his face as he slept the night before. He left alone the hair that made up his signature chin strap but took some time to clean up the rogue hairs that had decided to grow quickly in the night, standing out amongst their otherwise uniform lengthed comrades. He was almost psychotic about looking neat and trimmed. He felt it was a reflection of his character and he never wanted anyone to question that aspect of his being.

Several loud beeps were heard issuing from the kitchen area of Thomas’ studio apartment, which caused him to smile slightly, and he set the raiser down carefully, back into its spot in the drawer. His favorite part of the morning besides perhaps his first cigarette was sitting brewed, waiting for him on the counter. Coffee ranked way up on his list of guilty pleasures, dangerously close to his beloved books, but slightly below his new found love for drawing.

As he made his way to the kitchen he breathed in the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee. It had a calming effect on him. The scent brought him back a feeling of comfort which he had once received from his parents as a young boy. Their support and help was ever present in his youth. When he was waking up for school his mom made a habit of leaving him a cup of coffee on his dresser to help him wake up for the day. She always seemed to be looking out for him.

Reaching up into the cupboard above the counter, Thomas retrieved a stainless steel travel mug that he’d grown font of lately and poured himself a cup. He added a little vanilla creamer and stirred it in, pausing a moment to marvel at the unearthly swirls of beige and black dancing around in the cup, and as the two combined and settled into a light brown he smiled. Then, lifting the mug up to his lips, he took a sip. It was perfect.

It was almost a hair raising sensation and it brought goose bumps onto his back and arms. He savored the bittersweet concoction and momentarily was trapped in bliss. His love for coffee hadn’t been thoughtlessly invested. Thomas believed he might kill for an excellent cup of coffee, but whether or not this was serious – well – he just wasn’t ready find out. Given the option he would have gone to work at a coffee shop rather than the book store. But at this point that wasn’t an option anymore, with his rent due and some of the bills he had he couldn’t afford to switch jobs right now.

Thomas took glance at the clock which indicated to him that he had twenty minutes to get to work. It was “just another day,” he thought, and he grabbed the lunch he’d made the night before in one hand, his coffee in the other, and he headed out the door, making sure to lock it as he left.

The walk to work didn’t take more than thirteen minutes; he only lived a block away. As he walked he took note of the sky, it seemed more like a beautifully composed oil painting than a work of nature. Clouds were scattered about lightly and the sun that was passing through them lit them up in a golden yellow hue. They provided a brilliant contrast to the baby blue sky above. It was an amazing late spring morning. Birds were perching on the power lines, on the tree branches and were chasing each other about in the open air, calling out to each other, singing their morning melodies, and trying to attract their seasonal mates.

A couple squirrels were dancing about in the tree tops, making a ruckus. Occasionally the peaceful demeanor of the spring morning would be torn away when a squirrel spooked some of the birds in a tree above. Seemingly hundreds of them would take flight to find a less active perch to rest upon. Thomas would chuckle to himself when this would happen because the squirrels seemed to freeze in fear at the sudden brush of activity, then as if offended they would make more, almost angry sounding chirping noises after the retreating birds.