The Cup

I found it while dusting, a strange cup that definitely did not belong to me. It was nestled behind a number of photo frames. As I took the photos down off the mantle in my tiny kitchen I noticed the cup. Taking it down the first thing I noticed was its complete lack of dust. Who knows how long that thing had sat where I had found it but there was not a single speck of dust. The cup was white, cut from some kind of stone as it had no joints, nor any other signs to show that it had been man made. Yet it had two handles, one on either side of it. They were small handles, too slender for my meaty hands and fat fingers to use comfortably. A strange stain, a mix of ink black and iron rust sat as a blot in the very bottom of the cup. I boiled my kettle and half-filled the cup with water. As I dusted and then replaced the photo frames I poured some of the boiling water from my kettle into the cup. I was hoping that water alone would help to shift this strange blot. As the water hit the bottom of the cup it began to bubble, much like it had in the kettle. The water frothed wildly and then bubbled over the edges of the cup. Within a minute or two the cup was empty but the stain remained. The duster was placed over my sole kitchen chair as I stood in my kitchen and pondered this odd item. I tried pouring water from the fridge into the cup next and discovered again that the contents upon encountering the stain began to bubble and boil as if being heated. The cooler water was taking longer to froth but when I tipped the liquid from cup to sink it began to steam. I extended my fingers and tested the cup’s insides. The upper sections of the cup were still damp from the water. Lower down though the cup was dry. Curiously I ran my finger gently over the stain in the very bottom of the cup. A jolt of pain shocked me; it felt like my finger had just been neatly sliced. Swiftly withdrawing my hand I saw in surprise that there was indeed a tiny cut near the top of the nail of my index finger. A droplet of blood flowed forth, beyond my flesh to fall unhindered into the cup. I looked on in awe as the stain seemed to absorb that crimson droplet. Then the weirdness truly began. From the smear there came a soft blue light which filled the cup about half way. The light did not penetrate beyond the wetness, for some reason it seemed to dislike water. Within the light there began to appear numbers; 5, 8, 40, 12, 17, 9, 7, 22. Holding a tissue to my bleeding finger I frantically went in search of pen and paper. I had no idea what these numbers meant but I was curious. Turning away from the cup I sensed that the blue light was fading. By the time I had found paper and pen both the light was gone and the numbers were faded so faint I could not make them out. I scribbled down what I could remember; 5, 7, 8, 9 and 12, the first five in numeric order. Unsure of what else to do I then rang my brother.

5… 7… 8… 9… 1… 2… 1… 7… 2… 2… The phone began to ring.

“Hey Joe, it’s your brother Tom,” I said as the call answered.

“You’ve called Joe Mybridge,” began the answering machine. “You know what to do…”

I hung up before that annoying beep assuming I would see my brother that night anyway so it was not imperative that I speak with him at that precise moment. I examined the cup again. I was sure that the stain had shifted, or if not shifted it had at least grown in size. Puzzled I decided to experiment. I took the packet of beef mince out of my fridge. I was planning to create beef burgers to have for tea with my mum, my brother Joseph and my sister Mary that night. No longer dusting I thought I may as well get a start on those. I poured a few droplets into the cup of the blood that had pooled in the bowl where I had defrosted the mince. Again the liquid seemed to seep into the stain, this time the light was green. The message that appeared this time was a combination of letters and numbers; D… O… B… 0… 2… 0… 4… 1… 9… 7… 3… D… O… D… 2… 2… 0… 9… 2… 0… 1… 7…

Following the images as they appeared around the midsection rim I gasped. The second day of April was my birthday and it seemed the cup knew my year of birth too. Was the second lot of numbers predicting my death? Surely no, for the numbers that followed the sixth letter made out today’s date. I poured a few more droplets from the bowl into the cup and then the rest of the blood, adding a couple of my own droplets for good measure. Although the crimson vanished into the stain there was no further light, no more mysterious letters and numbers. I did watch the smear grow until the strange black and brownish stain covered the entire inner bottom section. Slightly disturbed I turned away from the cup and focused on my home made burgers.

White onion, egg, bread crumbs, a splash of red wine and some herbs all mixed together by hand, all adding to the deliciousness. Normally I paired these patties with a Brioche bun, lettuce, tomato and a thin slice of pineapple. My family disapproved of pineapple on a burger. In fact mum disagreed about pineapple on anything. As I prepared the veg the pineapple was returned to the cupboard. I called my sister and asked if she had been able to acquire the buns. She said that she had and she was bringing them over. An hour went by and still there was no sign of Mary. Mum and Joe arrived and I began cooking. The TV played in the background, the evening movie.

“I’ll ring her and see what’s happened,” announced Joe as the burgers sat ready and there was still no sign of Mary.

Over the TV they began to announce the lottery numbers, 5, 8, 40, 12, 17, 9, 7, 22.

“Oh crap,” I whispered. “I could have won tonight.”

“Oh crap,” whispered Joe. “That was the police.”

“What?!” cried mum. “Tell us, please!”

“Mary got cleaned up at the supermarket,” explained Joe, his face suddenly ashen. “She’s dead.”

The cup had predicted it all.