The second time I read the letter I became horrified. After first receiving it, I had shredded it and taken it into the office bathroom, intending to flush it down the toilet. I was intercepted by my editor who was pleased with my latest piece, though possibly confused why it had emerged on his desk so quickly after being assigned. Truthfully, I'd felt so good about my decision to eliminate the evidence that I was able to write normally. And, of course, by normally I mean abnormally quickly and a bit disjointed. But at least my writing was no longer conflicted and grammatically ignorant.
I was dismayed when my editor, after having complimented my renewed linguistic ability, headed into the restroom, effectively ending my primary means of destroying the letter. I kept its pieces in my pocket and headed out of work early. I figured I'd earned a shortened workday and desperately needed to reach home before my wife. I could have used the toilet at home to eliminate the paper waste in my pockets. Instead, upon reaching my house I'd thought of a more suitable means of eradicating my ghosts. I made the paper into a handful and packed it into and old pipe my father had given to me. A bag of tobacco was always in the top drawer of my desk and I took it with me out to my deck and smoked its entire contents along with the problematic letter. By smoking, I'd physically absorbed its charred remains but mentally had conquered it: made it my subordinate. My will was superior to moral obligation.
The following morning, I awoke to a not so welcome gift wrapped around my windshield wiper. It was familiarly placed but not the dull pink of the parking ticket I expected. Instead, on a clearly fire damaged piece of paper, the words remained. Not as legible, but still obvious in intent. I took the letter to my den and shredded it.
Had I done this before?
The resulting strips I carried into the kitchen and tossed with spinach, walnuts, and grapes. I enjoyed my guiltless salad while watching sportcenter. After a time I found myself asleep on the couch, salad bowl resting in my lap. My slumber had dissipated due to the invasive chirp of my telephone. Not concerned enough to stir, I let the machine take the call. The message was unexpected.
-Hey, wondering where you've gone to, call the office when you get this.
A bit bewildered, I checked the time: 2 pm. I'd missed a full day of work.
How long had I slept?
Had I seen my wife?
My kids?
There was a knock at the door. The clock read 3 now. Doorbell rang. My footsteps were casual but my mind frantic as I ran to the door. My ear pressed against it to see if I could hear the number of people outside. A solitary breath. Opening the door, I expected a coworker or neighbor inquiring of my health. The man at the door was familiar but nothing more than an acquaintance. I watched his mouth move and knew the words though I'm not certain they were audible. He needed to use my phone and I was happy to oblige. He stepped into the kitchen, soundlessly, without being led, finding the phone without looking. He'd been here before.
Was he here now?
I stared through him, through the gaping hole where once was chest. My gaze stopped for a moment and peering through his ribs saw my wife reach the back door, hands full of groceries. She stepped in and the man was gone.
-Thanks for opening the door for me
She smiled, she was sarcastic but not mad.
I stared into her, nodded, and retired to the restroom.
The clock by the sink read 5. I ran the faucet. I felt no more awake after tossing water on my face.
Was it morning or evening?
Was I awake?
I felt something catch me in its figurative arms. My image in the mirror had thrown me backwards. Pale, hair on end, sunken, hollowed eyes. I slipped down the wall to the floor and sat gripping a bottle of shampoo. I was entirely uncertain how I'd come to it, but now cherished it as my only worldly possession.
