Dying to Live
The minute I got home I noticed mail on the hall table. What? How did today’s mail get there? The morning had been sad and bizarre enough, but to get home and find today’s on my hall table was just down right spooky.
I live alone and only a few trusted friends have a key to my house or know where the hidden key is located outside. I had just move the hiding place and hadn’t updates the new spot with friends so … it had to have been someone with a key who brought in today’s mail from my curbside box.
Puzzled, I decided to check the mailbox before even touching the mysterious stack on the hall table. Empty … even the spider who some days scurries to the back was MIA.
Walking inside I decided to all Monica to see if she dropped by while I was gone and checked on things … bringing in today’s mail to help me out. The call went straight to voice mail. I left a quick message to let her know I was home and for her to call when she could.
Pulling my overnighter to the bedroom, I still felt a shiver of unease as I passed the hall table. I was on a mission to get things put away, change clothes and relax with a glass of wine, cheese and fruit.
I was rehanging clothes when my phone rang. Oh, must be Monica I thought … but … no caller ID and no one there when I answered. Click … another cog turned on the weird level of the day.
In comfy clothes and barefoot I padded into the kitchen for wine and cheese. Once my snack was made and the wine breathed long enough to let the flavor develop, I took my tray into the sunroom. One the way I picked up the mysterious stack of mail to sort through.
Monthly bills and an assortment of junk mail made up the pile. When I opened the local weekly flyer for my grocery store a postcard drifted to the floor. It landed face up with just my name, town and zip … no return address, stamp or any identifiers for the sender. This freaked me out even more.
With a trembling hand I turned the postcard over and found this message …
I am NOT DEAD. Meet me Tuesday night at 8 pm. I will be waiting for you our favorite back table at Peabody’s.” Always and Forever, Jack
No … this can’t be true. I saw Jack lowered into his grave just this morning during the service held at cemetery where he lived. He had been killed a week ago in a car accident while on assignment in some undisclosed war-torn country. Jackson Pollack Brown – his mother had a wicked sense of humor – was a freelance photojournalist. He wrangled his was to far away places to get up close and personal with whatever conflict was brewing.
Jas was one of the few trusted friends with my key … so maybe … no way … but no one actually saw his dead body … so maybe he is alive. It would be just like him to fake his death to live …
Tuesday night could not get here fast enough.
© 2017 Annie Original Flash Fiction
Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
As Ever, Annie