Shards

THE MAILBOX [+14]

A hot bead of sweat ran from the postman's temple. The scorching sun above him was merciless and seemed to chew his brain through the thin cap that bore the name of the company where he worked.

He had been driving for a few hours, and the air conditioning in his van wasn't keeping up with the heat on its own. It roared and made a worrying noise along with the engine as it tried to cool the uncoolable.

For long, long miles stretched a barren, lifeless landscape, dull and desaturated with solitary xerophytes and boring plains. The sky was almost white and the light reflected from the worn asphalt and the yellowed earth straight into the eyes of the tired, almost dehydrated postman.

When he looked at the road, a small horizon line next to the pavement rippled with the heat, and it had been so long since he had passed another car that the feeling of seclusion was almost uncomfortable. A sharp anxiety hurt his chest, fueled by the knowledge that if something happened there, it would be a long time before anyone could find him. That's if he even managed to ask for help.

His mind was already tormenting him, providing a long menu of disastrous scenarios. Running out of gasoline. Getting attacked by a hungry coyote. A flat tire. The chances were varied, and he was accompanied only by a considerable amount of boxes and letters in the rear compartment and a voice on the radio that had already stopped making sense a few highways ago. Robotic words, psychedelic songs sang to him keeping him awake.

The bead of sweat reached his chin and dripped onto his clipboard with a list of addresses. The postman stopped to look at it, expanding, consuming the paper,like a pupil that dilated, like a hole that opened.

His flesh seemed to cook beneath his dry skin. He could hear the muffled tss of a steak grilling behind the incessant ringing of his ears.

And then, a mailbox.

Static like a forgotten fragment, something that didn't seem to belong. A blur in the perfect painting of the landscape, an obstacle in the desert view. Black, contrasting, imposing and mysterious. A mailbox with no home to belong to, fixed to the ground unassumingly, almost arrogantly.

The postman was disgusted by the petulance of that mailbox. It needed a reason, it needed an excuse to be there, and there was none. Who could receive mail in that unforgiving place? In those cruel, seething lands?

He parked his van on the side of the road, kicking up some orange sand, and squinted to see straight. Yes, it was definitely a mailbox. He felt like shouting at oy, but he didn't dare break the silence.

He walked somewhat slowly, his muscles stiffened from remaining in the same position for so long, his heart pounding in his chest, his head swollen. He panted like a dog, from fear and heat. By God, how hot it was.

The red flag on the mailbox was standing up, signaling that there was something inside. But there was no sign of anything.

No footprints nearby, not even feathers from birds that would use this abandoned box as a nest. It wasn't that dusty, there weren't any thorny vines crawling over it. A glitch, a misplaced item, right there, in the middle of the desert, practically begging for attention.

The postman lowered the flag and opened the hatch. When he looked inside, he saw absolutely nothing. Empty. Liar. Trickster.

An anger took over his body with such force that the man bit his own tongue. He sank his teeth into his flesh and didn't stop until he fell. He didn't feel pain. He felt relief.

He lavished himself with his blood and drank it as it flowed,quenching a thirst that had previously seemed insatiable. His throat moistened, he felt the liquid running into his stomach and feeding him.

Then he lay down on the ground, having had enough. And finally, something came out of the mailbox.

A huge vulture that certainly wouldn't fit inside a mailbox approached the man, its perfectly round eyes looking evil. He also needed to drink.

He stretched his beak into the postman's mouth and tasted his blood. He pinched his open wound, the half of his tongue that was still there, and ripped out his uvula. He kissed him so deeply that the postman felt butterflies in his stomach.

There was another. Another vulture pecked at his abdomen and removed his intestines. And then another, and then another. It was like an orgy; he was the main course.

The Postman thought about all the mail that would never be delivered, but he didn't worry that much. He tried to look at the sky, but they had already pecked out his eyes.

From inside the parked van, the radio announcer was still talking nonsense. And the Postman stared at the mailbox from the window, his mind still playing tricks on him. There were no vultures. His tongue was still intact, swollen and dry inside his mouth. He took a deep breath, shifted into first gear, adjusted his cap and hit the gas.

The van screamed in despair, unable to move. Going so fast, for so long, with the air conditioning on, signed a certificate for tragedy. The blown engine would have lasted more kilometers due to inertia.

But the Postman stopped to look at the mailbox. Cynical and disgraceful.

A vulture soared across the sky.