To Whom It May Not Concern

As soon as I saw the envelope I knew the letter was not intended for me. No one I know would send me a letter in such a fancy dancy envelope. The paper of that letter clothing was expensive and I don’t do expensive. Never have and never will. If I came into money, I’d invest it in a pension and then I’d die before I ever got to spend a penny of it. The stress of all that money would put me in an early grave. Some things we are not meant for. I know that only too well.

Me and that slim and classy delivery had a moment together. The letter lay there on the door mat like it owned it. It sat perfectly square, and in the very middle of that mat as though meticulously placed there by a footman or whoever it was that conveyed items on plush, gilt edged cushions. The letter was out of place and yet exactly where it was meant to be. There we also differed. I’d yet to find a place I could comfortably be, let alone in a manner the letter had obviously perfected.

I envied that letter for its swagger and I hated it for the very same thing.

And yet, here it was. On my mat, in the house I laughingly referred to as mine, even in the face of the absolute fact that the house belonged to the bank and was a confidence trick that locked the masses into a life of servitude in pursuit of carrots they would barely nibble on. The two things certain in life were death and taxes. The few required the many to pay their way via taxes before Death came along, tapping them on the shoulder with the tip of her scythe and bidding them not outstay their welcome.

I think I smiled at that letter. A deferential smile that I learnt a long time ago. A polite smile that mostly conveys my lowly spot in the pecking order. A shy smile that urges the recipient to go easy on me as I’m exploited enough as it is, thank you. 

Even from my position over the letter I could see that there was a line missing. There was an address that was most likely my own, but the letter had no addressee. I crouched, wincing as both my knees cracked. Loud reports in an enclosed space, threatening ricochets that could only be headed my way, such was my luck. I bore the envelope aloft in a most ceremonial manner, which surprised me more than the envelope. Lightly touching the shorter edges of the epistle so as not to sully that papyrus-like material, I felt like I should be wearing pristine white gloves so as not to devalue the impressive object with the sweat and grease on my fingertips.

I read the address. I read it properly and thoroughly as though for the first time, the familiarity of the characters rendered unfamiliar in such formal circumstances. I then rose unsteadily to my feet and took the letter to the kitchen, placing it carefully on the dining table. Stepping back, I noticed that I had not done the thing justice, so I pushed the bottom right corner upwards setting the letter straight, as was proper and right.

It shamed me that my deference extended to a mindless thing made of posh paper. Outclassed and outranked by stationery.

I made a mug of tea, all the while the presence of the fine letter did not cease to be felt. This was at odds with all the post I had ever dealt with. That post was either sorted and dealt with there and then, or it was put in a pile. I hated myself for creating such piles. In the layers of that pile of post were contained some of my fears. Not all of my fears. I have a great many fears and my petty fears like to manifest themselves so they can remind me of what a coward I truly am. Afraid of the contents of an envelope, even when I know what it contains. A regular bill that I pay by direct debit. But what if I’m wrong? What if the envelope contains bad news? I know I am not equipped to deal with bad news. I am ill-equipped to deal with the repetitive and dull mundanity of my daily life.

I don’t think it helps that I never see the postman. I’m not sure how we have perfected this dance of ours, but not once have we seen each other, not even from afar. My post appears magically and that imbues it with dark power. I have no messenger to blame, and so I shoulder all of the blame myself and maybe a little interest on top. I earn every percentage point of that interest.

Drinking my mug of tea helped. The tea drinking ceremony allowed me a pause, but all the while my mind was racing. My beleaguered brain attending to the conundrum before me. There on the front of it was my address, so surely the letter was for me? This logic was all the more compelling because there’s only me that lives here and I’ve been here on my own for seventeen long years, so it’s not like the letter is for the previous owner or anything like that.

Here, on my own in a house I bought with the intention of it being the start of something new and something better. This might not have been the forever home I brought that special someone back to, but it was a statement of such intent. A good start was what I thought it was, way back when dreams were something that could come true, instead of a sore reminder of a life that has passed me by.

My tea drunk, I picked the envelope up again and I examined it more closely. There was no doubt that the number of the house was mine. Number twenty three. The address was hand written, but so controlled, neat and tidy as to almost look like a printed italic font. That neatness and the expensive quality of the envelope told me that the letter was not intended for me, but I kept it in my grubby mitt and turned it this way and that as though it would surrender its secrets were I to find the correct angle and the necessary perspective. 

The underside of the envelope was a mild disappointment. There was no red wax seal. A letter like this was underdressed without that seal. There was nothing remarkable about this side of the envelope other than the texture of the paper itself.

I resolved to open the thing and be done with it. I did so carefully so as not to damage the envelope, and not only so I could restore it to a closed state if it was necessary to do so. I had glue in a drawer behind me. Even I could not mess something that simple up.

I handled the envelope like it was treasure and I were an unworthy and impudent thief. My heart was doing strange things in my chest and my mind was a-flutter.

I pulled the triangular flap forth and was rewarded with a stinging sensation across the pad of my index finger. I pulled the finger away swiftly, but not swiftly enough. A fat droplet of blood landed on the material of the envelope and spread across the porous surface.

“You idiot!” I gasped to myself before prodding my finger between my lips and sucking at the damaged skin.

I stared recriminations at the offending envelope. It did not deign to react.

Careful not to wound myself further, I withdrew the letter from the open envelope, my index finger hanging out and away from the paper container. I sat for a moment, envelope in one hand and letter in the other. I’d done it now, but I was in no rush to unfold the single sheet of paper. Paper that matched the envelope in its ominous opulence.

I’d gone too far already and I knew I wasn’t going to take it back. I wanted to see what the envelope contained. I just had to know. But I was in no rush. I was deliberate in every step of the way towards the satisfaction of my dull curiosity. It was after all, a piece of paper, not a hoard of pirate treasure or the lair of a centuries old dragon. Then again, even this single piece of paper was far and away above my station in life. Personal letters were a rarity and a luxury these days. I could think of no one who would make the effort to write to me, and quite rightly so, for I had not made the reciprocal effort for them. You reap what you sow and my garden was paved, with only weeds poking out from between the concrete slabs. A reminder of what I was missing and that I was lazy to the point of worthlessness. Those slabs were another statement of intent. They went against nature just the same as I went against my own nature.

I dropped the bloody envelope on the table and regretted that discardment in an instant. That may have been who I was and I was ashamed at how easily I had dropped my mask of civility and reverted to my old, impolite and messy ways.

“Sorry,” I mouthed at the fallen stationery, then I returned my attention to the folded paper.

Again I twisted it this way and that, noting the dust motes hanging in the air between me and the letter. Dust depressed me. It was suspended above all the surfaces in the house ready to thwart any attempt I made at cleaning. Dust told me all I needed to know about the nature of my existence. I was fighting a losing battle and deluding myself as I attempted to bring some semblance of order to the chaos that surrounded, outnumbered and outgunned me.

There was no writing on the face of the paper that I could see. A single piece of paper and writing only on the one, folded over side of it. I felt short changed even as I felt relieved that there was not an extensive missive for me to study. Not for the first time did I understand that I was not easily pleased. I had in the end proved my own mother right. I was difficult and I had found no one to put up with my contrary ways.

This waywardness in my nature provoked my opening of the folded page. As the page opened, my eyes fell upon the few words written thereon. My eyes were drawn to the characters and nothing I could do would stop them conveying the message on the page…

Place your cut index finger on the dot below.

I felt sick and dizzied by those words. How was it that whoever had written those words knew I would cut my finger? What if I’d used a paperknife, letter opener or guillotine? Surely few people were as clumsy as me?

They could have not known, unless the letter was meant for me?

More by a terrible instinct than anything else, I lifted the envelope from the table. It had been discarded face down and as I turned the front to face me, I already knew what I would see.

My name was written in blood atop the address, correct and neat and tidy in that same italic writing.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, I did the one thing I did not want to do. Curiosity killed cats for sport, and cats were stealthy and cunning creatures, I was lumpen in comparison. But still, I had to know. 

Surely it was better to know?

I thought this as my finger pressed against the textured paper and my blood soaked into it. I watched in fascinated horror as the words formed around my bleeding finger.

You have twenty four hours.

I will come for you then.

I closed my eyes tight and wondered whether Death wrote many letters, and whether this made me special or not. I didn’t think about what I’d do between now and then. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

When I opened my eyes, the letter and its envelope were gone. Of course they were. The message self-destructed in five seconds and all I was left with were empty hands and a bead of blood on my index finger. A single blood red tear to mourn the passing of an unremarkable life.