Get Out If You Can

Diego | It's Letter Day, But The Letter's Not Red

T W O     W E E K S     L A T E R

I've developed a weird habit of shining the flashlight of my phone at every dark corner I pass, no matter how funny that must make me look. I don't want to go home sprayed red like Alison was. She's lucky her mom listened and decided to keep things quiet. I, on the other hand, have a little more than a vague idea that if that happened to me then half the active police force would be having pink slips mailed to them the very same afternoon. Or whatever time of the day it would be.

I ball my hands into fists at my sides, just so I'm ready. There isn't any reason to be afraid, in truth. This is the road to my house and since there's no other house anywhere on the lane, Mom takes the liberty to refer to this little stretch of road as her own. I know better than to dispute that.

The month of October isn't over yet, but it doesn't totally bother me. Anything could strike, anytime. It's almost like it's normal. If I was paranoid like many others who were proud enough to say so on social media, I would bet that the hour the dawn of the next day breaks in, something would happen. But I'm not. I don't think I've ever feared a time period more in my life, but here's the thing — I'm not even sure what to be afraid of.

Well, nobody's really bothering about it that much apart from gossip-deprived schoolkids. Plus, a whole two weeks have passed. Nothing much to be wary of, at least for now.

So far, it's been only Alison. No others had their clothes randomly spray painted for no reason whatsoever. And I hope it stays that way. To be honest, I think it's all another prank, this time with us as targets. Two weeks is a long time to wait if you're planning something different.

There are a few steps left to my house; I can see the carved exterior of it through the gaps in the trees. We don't really have these sudden sunny days right in the middle of winter here in Callenfield. I might as well make the most of it. I pull out my phone to snap a picture of the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and I stand back to get an angle. I take a few steps back to tweak it further, and ah, there, perfect. I steady my finger over the 'capture' button, and...

I trip. Not on myself, of course, I'm not that clumsy. There's someone behind me, which is unnatural. I turn my body to get a better look at the person.

Looks like a mailman. Holding letters. I feel like I'm in the nineties, who needs a mailman anymore? Funny.

The Mailman Man looks at me, and I'm immediately conscious of my position on the ground. I stand up and try to dignify myself, while he gives me a long, appraising look.

"Is this where the Torrez family lives?" He glances at the letter — a thick, black envelope — and tries to confirm the address. I nod.

Then I realize he isn't really looking at me, so I might need to give a verbal answer. "Yes," I say.

"Nice place, right?" He shields his eyes against the sun, admiring our very huge and very impressive house.

"I guess so," I say.

"Where do I keep this?" He waves the envelope at me, as we walk together to my house. I hold out my hand.

"I guess you can give it to me," I say. "I'm Diego Torrez."

"You live here?" He looks at me with eyes widened to double their capacity. I'm pretty sure he was visualizing some Augustus Gloop and got, well, a literal fishbone in a hoodie sprawled on the road outside his own house. Does not exceed expectations.

"I do," I say, hitting the brass knocker on the wooden door, just to look like hey, I live here. He gets it, nods curtly, and deposits the envelope in my waiting hands.