Mrs. Wilson, an unhappy librarian, was frustrated with the unending collection of people her desk.

"Where do I get a 1099-Interest form," a patron asked.

"I'm sorry," she held her voice steady as the anger built up, your banking institution sends those forms," She busied herself moving papers around her desk to deter further questions.

The tax season cut into her usual evening of patrons quietly reading.

A demanding, confused lot of people confronted her.

"Can you help me do my taxes," a questioned asked ten times in the last six hours.

"How do I file my taxes?"

"Do you know what this form means?

She started pointing to the tax form table without saying a word when people approached.

"I need help," a gentleman said. He was unusually tall and tilted his head to one side as if contemplating a great thought.

"Yes," she said and extended her finger towards the table while calculating the minutes left until this night was over.

"I want to cheat on my taxes." His words caught her as funny and she let out a nervous laugh.

He repeated his question.

"I need to know how to cheat on my taxes."

"Sir, I don't have that kind of information."

HIn his hand he held a pen, long and black with a sharp point. His hand shook nervously.

"Well, what good are you?" And he stood and waited for an answer.

"I am a librarian, not a crook. The answer to your question may be found somewhere in prison, but I assure you I will not help you cheat on your taxes."

From his pocket he pulled out a gun and she froze when he pointed it in her direction. His hand shook as he held it tight.

"Get up and go to the office. Your going to find out what prison is like."

The hordes of people that battered her with questions earlier were oblivious to her situation. In her throat she felt a tight spasm, a scream she couldn't get out. Inside the office he closed the door quietly behind them.

"You think you're so good because you don't cheat on your taxes."

"I didn't say that," she said, trying to find an object on the desk behind her to protect herself.

"Tell me you have never cheated on your taxes."

"I don't know what your talking about." Her voice high and shrill. On the desk she felt her letter
opener.

"Perhaps you added an imaginary deduction. Maybe you didn't report income. How about interest. Ever forget to declare a measly .38 cent interest dividend?"

The fan above them turned slowly, the cool air unfelt as he edged toward her. The gun now nudged into her stomach.

"Ever declare a donation you never made?"

Instead of ansswering, she used all her force to bury the letter opener into his heart. A splash of blood frightened her and she stumbled backwards.

The intercom snapped on. "The library will be closed in ten minutes."

Regaining her balance she left the crazed man on the floor. She took a seat at her desk, blood splattered across her old cartigan sweater and picked up the phone.

"911, I just stabbed a man with a letter opener. I'm at the library. Yes, sir, I know the reason I stabbed him. He wanted me to help him cheat on his taxes. I am not that type of woman," she heard herself say.

A small timid woman stood at her desk staring at the blood stains on sweater and turned to leave, muttering over her shoulder, "taxes drive people nuts."