One Last Attempt

002

Our mailbox was busted open. Mine and Baker's. It made me frustrated. There was definitely going to be a charge from our landlord for the break. At least, it reminded me to check the mail. I stuck my hand inside and pulled out a white letter, addressed to me.

I remember thinking that it was odd because it didn't have a postage stamp. It was hand-delivered.

In the elevator, I wouldn't open the letter. I thought that inside was Baker's note, something he had a neighbour bring to me. My name wasn't written in Baker's handwriting though. From years of notes of the fridge, I would recognize it anywhere. It was messy and angular. The letter was written in emasculate cursive.

Once inside the flat, I took twice the recommended dose of Advil for my headache. After about thirty minutes of sitting on the couch and staring at the television (which was turned off), I finally got up to read the letter.

Dear Fredrick Chapman,

There is an opportunity that awaits you. One week to save Baker Jones's life in exchange for your soul. You have three attempts.

X___________________

I attempted to rip up the letter. I thought it was some horrible prank, which couldn't have been committed by someone who knew me or Baker, even though our names were on the page. After all, anyone who knew Baker died along with him.

I took my hands and tried to tear it apart, but it wouldn't rip. Now, I wasn't the strongest guy there ever was (I talk about this like it wasn't this evening. It was and it wasn't), but I certainly wasn't the kind of person who struggled to rip a page. So, I attempted again, and again, but nothing.

Then, I dug through our kitchen drawers until I found scissors, which wouldn't do the trick. I took a match to the sheet, and it wouldn't burn.

Eventually, I decided that I was going crazy.

I picked up my phone and dialled.

Dial tone, dial tone, dial tone. Then, she answered. "Freddie?"

"Himari, hey," I made the mistake of calling her by her full name.

"Are you going to have another panic attack?" Mari asked. I could hear the phone rubbing up against something. She was already on her way out of the door to come and meet me.

"No," I told the truth (I think). "I just, I had a question for you."

"I'll be there in five," she answered.

While I waited for her, I tried to soak the paper in the sink. It repelled the water, splashing it up against my shirt. Quickly, I turned the tap off. I wasn't the most creative guy, but I couldn't think of anything else to do to the paper at this point, except recycling it.

There was a knock at the door, and I went to answer. Before I could make it there, Mari walked in, panting. "What's wrong, Freddie?"

"Nothing," I answered from my spot at the bar.

She kicked off her shoes and walked into the apartment. She stood across from me at the island. I waited for her to look down at the paper because it was the only thing in our otherwise immaculate apartment, but she didn't.

"What's wrong?" Mari leaned closer to me. She elbowed the paper, seemingly oblivious to it underneath her. "You're still wearing your suit, and you're soaking wet."

I tried to think of a new question to ask her because I wasn't about to suggest she read an indestructible, possibly invisible sheet of paper. At least I knew that something had splashed me, which meant that the paper physically existed, even if only for my eyes.