Damn you, Mr. Sinclayre

         I stared at the letter in my hand. It was handwritten, rare for our era. The paper was soft under the palm of my hand, and I guessed that the sender hadn’t been afraid to spend a few bucks on quality gloss paper, which added further to the unbelievable quotient.

Dear Miss April Hummings,

           You must be wondering who I am, and why I’m writing to you. My name is Aravy Bethellhem, and I’m the executer for Mr. Aravin Sinclayre. I have been informed you are unaware of your relation to Mr. Sinclayre, so allow me to enlighten you. He is your maternal grandmother’s half-brother.

           Regretfully, Mr. Sinclayre passed in his sleep a fortnight ago at the fruitful age of 97, leaving behind a large sum of money. Mr. Sinclayre made fortune in the stock market as a young man, later becoming the owner of a significant steel tycoon, Hardstinare.

 It was believed that this grand amount, estimated to be upwards of $14 million, would, of course, be inherited by his only son, Harvey Sinclayre, but at his funeral, it was revealed that he would not, under any circumstance (the reason for this slight was left unsaid) allow his fortune to be passed on to his son.

Mr. Sinclayre has no other relatives to pass on his fortune. His wife passed a few years ago, and has only one son, Mr. Harvey. His mother is live, but he cannot pass it on to her, due to legal reasons. Mr. Sinclayre does not have any siblings or extended family, except your grandmother, Mrs. Mayella Stone. Since Mrs. Stone died before your birth and your mother’s current whereabouts are unknown, Mr. Sinclayre specified in his will that his fortune is yours to be inherited, under one condition.

You must travel to his family mansion, in Slovenia, to have a formal, black-tie dinner with his remaining family, his son and mother, Mrs. Sinclayre Sr, who is still well and healthy, or else this generous sum is to be donated to charity. 

I understand that this will be uncomfortable for you, considering the situation with Mr. Harvey, however I beg of you to come, for unless you make the trip from your hometown of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to the Sinclayre family home in the outskirts of Sevnica, you cannot inherit the Sinclayre fortune.

Yes, I agree with you. Mr. Sinclayre was quite the eccentric, but these are the stated terms. The details that concern you regarding the journey have been attached.

Kindly write back as soon as possible,

Regards,

Aravy Bethellhem

Undoubtedly, Miss Aravy (or Mrs, she hadn’t specified…) had been the one to pen the letter on the Sinclayres’ behalf; no simple executor in their right mind would splurge money in such a fashion, least of all on a letter whose contents could very well have been sent through an email. But then again, she did work for some insanely rich family, right? Who knows? It’s an interesting world out there.

And about the money. Upwards of $14 million. The guy’s a freaking millionaire! And he wants me, a poor little girl from a poor little neighbourhood in Milwaukee who’s barely related to him, to have his fortune?! If I decided to go with it, I practically wouldn’t have to work a day in my life.

Out of pure curiosity, I google up some famous net worths, both fictional and real.

Tony Stark - $12-35 billion

Joe Biden - $9 million

George Lucas - $6.5 billion

Lucius Malfoy - $1.6 billion

Willy Wonka - $1.9 billion

Jabba the Hutt - $8.4 billion

Billie Eilish - $25 million

JK Rowling - $1 billion

Kim Kardashian - $900 million

Benazir Bhutto - $850 million

Princess Diana - $31.5 million

As much as I’d love to ditch it all, throw a rucksack over my back, and head for Sevnica, I wasn’t exactly wealthy. I had a hard time fending for myself, what with rent, food, and the occasional birthday gift for someone. The kind of situation we’re talking about here is one about 500 bucks above the poverty line. As much as I wanted to go, I would be broke- no, I’d be in serious debt for about… 3 weeks.

But the Almighty may as well have been pushing me to go, because that very moment, a smaller envelope fell from the main envelope.

Dear Miss April Hummings,

Attached is $135,000 to finance your travel expenses and a Courtesy gift of $1,000. You may keep it whether you wish to make the trip or not.

Damn you, Sinclayres.

I weighed my options. On one hand, I could take this offer and be rich. I wouldn’t even have to live in Milwaukee anymore. Hell, I could live in Paris. I had endless options. There would be nothing holding me back. Except, well, I couldn’t do it.

On the other, I could simply weasel off like a selfish little worm with the money they’d graciously provided. It could serve me for decades to come. I’d be able to live solely on the interest it would get. It would be safe. I could write my thanks, apologize for stealing their money, quote Aravy, and forget it ever happened. But I’d be broke again soon enough, and it would be one hell of an offer to turn down. At least some poor kiddies would get the money instead of me; maybe I’d get some good karma,

My mental scale was leaning heavily towards the former, but I-I, I had a condition. I was on the Delta Flight 4, a Douglas DC-2, when it crashed on the night of December 21^st, 17 years ago, when I was 8. I lost both my father and my big sister.

The flight crashed in the middle of nowhere in Russia. The closest place was a small town called Oymyakon, which co-incidentally happened to be the. Coldest. Place. On. Earth. I was trapped in snow, in temperatures close to -34 degrees Celsius (about -29 degrees Fahrenheit) under a sheet of metal for almost 2 days before rescuers finally found me. They initially thought I was dead, but it turned out a few fallen pieces of cloth that had once been a bag kept my body warm enough for life.

I was in and out of consciousness, but I remember enough to make me never want to step into a vehicle again. I’d thrashed and screamed so badly when after I was discharged from the hospital, they had to sedate me to get me into a car and I was put on anaesthesia to get in a plane. I have a motorbike instead of a car because I’m that afraid of getting into a closed metal can again.

PTSD, Anxiety and Panic Attacks suck when they all decide to kick your butt together, and that’s what happens when I get close to entering a car.

Maybe I could send one of my friends, charading them as myself. But if the Sinclayre found out all of my dirty little secrets, including my mother, right under my nose, they’d probably know I was sending someone.

What if I sent someone as an ambassador? That way, the Sinclayres would know what I was doing because I would have written beforehand. But what if they took it the wrong way?

There was only one way to settle this, and I knew just the person to call.

The call was over in less than a minute; my contact had a firm opinion. Regardless, I still had the liberty of two options. I smiled, toying with my second-hand half-broken Samsung Galaxy M51. I made my decision.