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Lettered

M. Matheson

Lettered

  M. Matheson

  Copyright 2014 Michael Matheson

  ISBN: 9781311850508

  *Lettered*

  Trish dug blindly for the coiled plastic ring that held three keys, just three, and was too easy to find in a sparsely occupied Coach handbag.

  The stamped-sheet-metal key felt too loose in a lock more at home on a child’s toy than this far-from-the-slums apartment house mailbox. Just how could such a frail contraption possibly keep any but the most honest people out of her mail? Trish knew that if the neighbors precocious five-year-old brat wanted to, she could shred the few articles of mail she did receive into snowflakes and rain them down on busy Broadway in front of their building.

  Did it really matter, though? Trish never received anything more important than monthly bills for utilities and a phone that seldom rang. The bulk of her mail made up of enough postal spam to keep her parrot’s cage well lined. This slight worry over her mail’s security was but a little sprout, a mere sprig to fill a void in the low-maintenance drought-resistant garden her life had become.

  Her mind-numbing job lost in the bowels of Trainors Life and Casualty kept human interactions to a minimum. Trish had a desk in a vast cubicle farm shut away from life. Perfect.

  She had exiled the human race long ago.

  The only living thing she kept any concern for was Klaus, her Nanday parrot, cute, cheap and noisy. At fifty bucks, he had been over-priced, but NOISY, helping to break up the white-noise that filled her head.

  For Klaus’ first few weeks in her tiny two-room apartment, he crowed such an endless racket that fingernails on a blackboard would have been an enormous relief; it was a wonder he didn’t drop dead of exhaustion. Twice, Trish went to his cage, flung open the door, and reached in ready to strangle the ugly noise out of him. Klaus stared out in horror, and if it hadn't been for the look in his beady little black eye, he would have been wrapped in newspaper, and his carcass tossed out into the trash.

  She’d seen it in his eye; that little bastard despised humans as much as she did. It warmed her heart in a dark, perverse sort of way and seemed to make sense to her. Still, if she had come home one day to find Klaus two-legs-up on the floor, it would’ve been no more than a speed-bump; and he probably felt likewise. Chances were, Klaus would outlive her.

  “You better thank God for thick walls and good insulation,” she said, thinking how tragic it was that her only trusted friend was a stupid bird. The arrangement worked. No bruises, broken bones or hearts.

  “So, how much damage could you do anyway?” She motioned to flick Klaus off his perch with her thumb and forefinger. He shrieked a stinging rebuke, and she grinned lovingly in return.

  The Lilliputian mailbox, more like a mail-slot, contained a letter. Slanted at a rakish angle it leaned against the corroded aluminum sidewall and taunted her. Trish had not received any personal correspondence in well over five years; just the way she liked it.

  A high-quality Hallmark envelope addressed by hand, it obviously wasn’t the bird litter SPAM that came disguised as mail from a caring friend; this one bore a fancy Elvis Presley commemorative stamp, no postage-machine knockoff it was licked and pressed on by a stranger’s thumb. She assumed it had not come from the utility company offering her their thanks for paying their sky-high bills on time and without protest.

  Some human being had sent it to HER.

  Trish reeled back at the thought and regained her balance at the last step before she would have tumbled into an oversize concrete planter filled with fake ferns and garishly colored plastic rocks.

  The implications of SOMEONE sending her correspondence was staggering. How dare he, she, they, or it? Hadn’t she spent the last twenty-plus years removing herself from humanity, a time-consuming but not impossible task here in the Big Apple. It had been quite simple, easy as pie, in fact, to melt into the surging human mass and vanish, irrelevant to anyone.

  But now, someone had reached out, even if only with pen and paper, and she could feel its sticky arms like tendrils from some alien ship seeking to drain her bankrupt soul.

  Just as an Animal Control officer might reach for an errant rattlesnake, she grasped the envelope and turned it over once and again in her trembling hand. No return address.

  Trish’s name was clearly spelled-out. There was no mistake.

  In the next cell over from the stuffy little corner where she quarantined her affection for Klaus, a deeply submerged desire stirred from its long days of boring slumber and banged its empty cup on the door like a lunatic. It WAS still alive after all these years and clamored for a friend, a lover, anyone with no agenda who wanted nothing and needed nothing. All others need not apply.

  Trish held the rattlesnake-paper hybrid as if at the slightest upset it would disintegrate or sink its poisonous fangs into her heart.

  There was a single clue to its origin a horrifying postmark, Everett, WA.

  Had she failed so miserably at divorcing herself from the human race and her past?

  Trish believed she had finally wrested free of those sweet memories since turned so utterly rancid. It had been a long time since she’d thought of those razor sharp claws caressing her neck. They would come calling during a movie or something as innocuous as a walk down the street; they sprung on her in sappy love scenes and when she saw men of similar builds and mannerisms.

  Once, she thought she had sighted him boarding a city bus and went so far as to follow it into the darker more dangerous parts of the Bronx. He would have been very comfortable on these violent streets; she thought as she watched and waited. The man exited and walked around the bend of the accordioned bus, and instantly he felt her gaze fall on him, hard and icy.

  His terrified look immediately disqualified him.

  Trish arrived at work looking haggard and worn. She limped and held one broken shoe heel in her hand; it bought no compassion from her supervisor or co-workers.

  "How could you possibly come in three hours late without so much as a call to let us know? You know the strain we have been under with the new contract.” Bill Jacobs paused for breath as his face purpled like an overripe grape. And, like a tapping foot, his pulsing carotid demanded a response. She had none. No good excuse that she could tell anyhow. Trish stood cowed before his onslaught. He carried a lot of extra weight in both position and girth, so she thought he might just drop dead right there from the strain.

  Trish pictured the grape bursting and splattering the room with gray matter and red juice. She smiled.

  “What in God’s name are you grinning about?” then continued his barrage without waiting for an answer. “I've had to shuttle your work between Myra and Ben!"

  Both stood frozen in the hallway, arms bristling with stacks of manila folders that threatened to spill their contents at the slightest upset. They wore masks of pissed pathetic sympathy.

  She earned a write-up. It wasn't her first, and without being read, it went straight into the wastebasket.

  The letter’s arrival had cooked up an all too familiar stew of emotions – heavily salted with anger and lust. Revenge bubbled up and threatened to boil over within her. With repeated slow breaths, Trish calmed herself and drew the envelope slowly under her nose. She recalled a gray wintery day so very long ago, and that memory was as sharp and glaring as yesterday.

  A faint aroma rode with the letter, and it took her back in time to a crude cabin in the woods, not far from where the it was postmarked. One of the good memories filled her head like a big-screen: she had pressed her face into his down-filled pillow while waiting for his return. Drawing the scent deeply into her lungs, it infused her with a steamy gumbo of pleasant feelings – and perfect security.

  "I'm just going to town for a few things, need anything – besides me of course
?" And he breathed out his deep warm chuckle before enclosing her within his heavily muscled arms for a long loving squeeze. She buried her face in the nape of his neck, feeling safe, and invincible.

  He lifted her off her feet as if she were weightless, and looked into her shining blue eyes, "I'll be right back, you know that don’t you?” and then the tail-lights of his snowmobile disappeared into a graying winter gloom before finally winking out, swallowed forever by the surrounding forest.

  From a hiding hole in the woods, he must have watched Mark leave. Perhaps just a random hunter who took the opportunity when it presented itself or a seasoned criminal who had lucked out, either way, he’d found his next score.

  Trish had nothing of value to steal but her virtue and peace of mind; torn from her soul, they were violently carried away screaming into the night. She had once dared wonder whether he was good looking or monstrous; a thought that she scolded herself for to this day.

  Did Mark plan to run out on her, or did he come back and find the goods spoiled? She never knew, but if Trish got to pick, she would rather it was the former.

  The details of that day played back in minute detail now that she held a letter arriving from that part of the country. The man’s horrid whiskey and cigarette smell seemed to fill the vestibule where she stood.

  Maybe Mark had simply come upon the man, been killed and buried, but after the Sheriffs' extensive search, dozens of volunteers and a cadre of bloodhounds, it was unlikely. The volunteers and officers looked on her with fear, pity, disgust and sometimes all three. Now and then they looked away. Even when they offered kind consoling words, it was hard for them to look her in the eye.

  Mark had gone missing, and never returned to his parent’s home. They'd had him declared legally dead; nevertheless, to this day they held the firm belief he'd turn up alive one day.

  Jilted, assaulted and nearly killed, all in one day, she must have been the most unfortunate girl in the world.

  The clock ticked-off its maddeningly long seconds as she jiggled the envelope with her long thin fingers, tipped by modest but perfect nails. Pastel pink. Nothing to draw attention.

  She turned and caressed the hunting knife in her hand remembering the good days spent with Dad in the woods. He taught her survival skills, one of which was how to keep a shavers edge on a blade. Using her best throwing hand, she slit the envelope cleanly end to end in one smooth motion.

  Dear Trish,

  After so--so many years, your delicious aroma fills my head at every thought of you. I miss you deeply. Can we meet?

  Your Lover,

  206-549-6436

  P.S.: I know right now might be hard, so I would understand if you were hesitant. My email address is [email protected]

  Trish’s scream cracked the air like hot tea on ice. Every neighbor must have heard, but no one came running. She crushed the letter in her fist, and arched her arm to pitch it in the fire – but stopped.

  A grin slipped slowly across her blemish free, but not scarless face. Lost in a calculated thought, the tip of the knife traced a jagged course along a thick red scar. She loved the feel of the cold steel on the glaring wound that ran from the corner of her brilliant blue eye to just under the lip of her chin. For reasons she’d found impossible to put into words, she’d saved the scar to signify that day. Plastic surgery could have all but eliminated the brutal ugliness that marred her face, but Mark needed to see and to know.

  Unfolding and smoothing the crinkled letter, she set it alongside her keyboard and typed-

  Enchanted One,

  I’ve been thinking of you too. I look forward, with delight to meeting you once again.

  Let’s get together soon.

  Trish

  The setting sun glinted off the Natchez SK-5 Bowie knife as it lay unsheathed alongside her keyboard atop the wrinkled letter. Her email dinged. As expected, Enchanted One had responded oh-so-quickly. Reading the short but excited email, she tapped the blade on the edge of the keyboard and composed her next move.

  Finished, she could now sleep without wondering, and sleep she did, the deepest most restful slumber of the last two decades.

  The predawn silence suddenly broke; the front door opened and closed with a muted click-swish-click. Sunrise found the Bowie knife, along with Trish, missing from their place, and Klaus was two-legs-up at the base of his perch.

  The End

  Thank you for taking the time to read my tale.

  M. Matheson

  About the Author

  Other than dying a slow pleasurable death from an outsized imagination and my addiction to words, I am a 59-year-old retiree, father, and husband.

  After having raised four daughters, all who are well into adulthood, my wife and I are bringing up a very active almost five-year-old boy.

  We live in Sacramento, California.

  Early in life, I was sidetracked by many dysfunctional relationships and unfortunate decisions. Later on, I would learn that those troubles made for great storytelling.

  From motorcycle outlaw to Pastor of a church, I've made many stops along my journey in life, some good some bad, and some I wish I could erase.

  There are also many things I can't wait to do again. Each and every one of these scraps makes great fabric from which to weave another grand tale.

  If, in some way, you were moved by my stories, or at the very least enjoyed reading them, that would be my greatest joy.

  Peace,

  Mike Matheson

  OR

  Connect with me to find out more about my book “No More Mister Nice Guy” and my second novel, Flatline, coming in 2016.

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