Sincerely, S.H

Chapter 4

I stare blankly at the envelope in my hand. How did it even end up in my possession? It can’t be the same letter as yesterday because the seal is still perfectly intact. I turn it a few times in my hand, and aside from the ominously colored seal, it is a rather innocuous piece of folded paper. Perhaps I really have been exaggerating. It’s just a letter. I look at the seal again and examine it more closely now. Engraved in the small black circle is the image of a bird. My first thought is that it is a crow raven because of the color, but upon even further inspection it actually appears to be a gentler creature like a dove or hummingbird. I do not claim to be an ornithologist, but there is nothing threatening about this bird other than the color of the seal and the fear that I now associate it with. Perhaps it is a different sender entirely, and maybe black seals are just some fad to revamp the letter writing industry. With still shaking hands, whether from the cold or the fear, I tuck the letter back in its spot. Maybe if I read it and it’s fine, I will be passed this piece of shaky sanity in my life. Maybe this letter will undo whatever sorcery the other one has had on me. Maybe.

Casting off all thoughts of the cursed note, I rummage through the main pocket of my bag for the letter for my sister. In a few seconds, I find it, stamp it and slip it into the slot designated for outgoing mail. It’s just a simple everyday task, but everything seems just a little more ominous when you have mysterious letter in your bag with origins unknown. The letter seems to demand that it be read as I exit the post office and walk home. Not only do I think about it, but I almost feel its weight. A few times, I think I hear it calling me. I try to block it out as I walk home, looking forward to a long nap. My current tiredness, though less of a spiritual malfunction than before, is beginning to really weigh me down. It feels almost unnatural for my feet to be on the ground and for my body to be vertical.

By the time that reach the door to the suite shared by me and Stephanie, I can’t recall how I got there. I brush this off as a byproduct of the exhaustion caused by ten hours of sleep in the last two days. I fumble with the keys for god knows how long before the door opens to reveal a rather concerned and annoyed Stephanie. Did she open the door for me? I don’t know.

“Shauna?” Stephanie says my name with a verbal question mark stapled to the end of it. “Are you… drunk?” I chuckle uncontrollably for a moment as I stumble forward, thankfully without falling completely over. I’m glad that my demeanor can help my case for sobriety.

“No, I’m just…tired, and a little disoriented,” I slur and stutter adding at least three syllables to the word “disoriented.”

“I think you need to go to sleep,” she assesses. No, Stephanie, I think I need to run a marathon with a parachute and a ball and chain. As usual my sarcasm is silent, but this time the metaphorical darts my eyes shoot are almost visible despite their inherent lack of existence. In response, Stephanie’s face pales a little and she steps back quietly as if she is a scolded child. I stumble farther forward in the space created by Stephanie’s motion. Finding the way to my door feels like saving a child from David Bowie, but I do. I reach out for the knob, but reconsidering, I drop my bag on the floor by the doorway to protest Stephanie’s obsessive order and cleanliness. With a spiteful glance behind me in what I assume is Stephanie’s direction, as my eyesight seems to be fading as fast as my legs and my grip on reality, I turn the knob of the door and fall into my room behind it. I fling the door towards the closed position before falling face first into bed. I can’t be sure if the door closed; in fact, I can’t be sure of much anything.

I awake to sunlight and the distinct feeling that I have not been acting like myself. As my post sleep haze begins to fade, I begin to realize why I feel this way. I should apologize to Stephanie. Sure she’s a little neurotic, but, as recent events prove, I am the lunatic. Who just limps into their dorm at ten thirty in the morning like a drunk person and then proceeds to disrespect their roommate’s wishes by pointedly messing up the common room? In thinking about what a mess I’ve become, I go to cover my face with my hand. It is when I do this that I realize that there is something in my hand. Reopening my closed eyes and blinking them for clarity, I look at the piece of paper in my hand. It’s the new letter. How did it even get here? I sigh at the silliness of my own question. Yes, under other circumstances it would be reasonable to ask why an item that you remember leaving in a different room before napping should be in your hands when you awake. But these are not normal circumstances. I think I am even losing the ability to define what my normal circumstances have started to become as of receiving the first letter. I don’t even know how to act like a functioning human being anymore.