Post Office
No. It- it could hurt. You weren’t the one they chose and that’s the end of the story. If they don’t want to see you they have no obligation to. You should just go to the post office like you were planning.
It starts raining on the way there. Nothing worth commenting on, just a slow cold drizzle that felt like it soaked all the way through you. You should’ve gotten your umbrella. You should’ve stayed home. You shouldn’t have let them go that easily.
When you step into the post office you’re greeted by an overly chipper attendant at the counter.
“Hi! Welcome in! Just to let you know we’re having a special on valentines cards this week! Make sure you remember the important people in your life!”
Of course it’s Valentines. That’s why you heard everyone around the office talking about their plans for this weekend. You sigh to yourself and set your packages on the counter. They looked so sad and pitiful next to the bright clean surroundings of the office.
“Just these today? Oh they look so cute! Are they for your family?”
When you don’t respond after a few seconds they go quiet.
“Oh- I’m sorry I shouldn’t pry. That’ll be 12.84 whenever you’re ready!”
You pay quietly and nod your head when they wish you a good day. You wait anxiously the next few days hoping for a response. A week passes and you stop getting excited to check your mail.
You've started having strange dreams about a dark stone wall, stained with deep bloody scratches.
Two more weeks go by. You check your mail again, just like you’ve done every day, and finally you see something new. You tear it open without even bothering to check who it’s from, and scan the page. With a look of horror you drop the letter on the ground. It’s a government notice. You’ve lost custody.
The envelope under that contains a letter from your former partner. You barely even process the words as your eyes rest on a single sentence. “Don’t ever contact me or my kids ever again.” Their kids. Of course. You lost custody, it’s not like you can still call them yours.
You’re not sure how long you stood there in the mail room. Frozen in place. A few people came and went, but by that point the tears were flowing so strongly that you hardly noticed.
At some point you must have dropped to your knees because the next thing you remember was the clerk lifting you up and walking you back to your apartment door.
The dreams are worse now. They blur together with your waking days, the dark lonely walls of the apartment seeming to shift in and out of the terrifying imprisoning strength of the stone that filled your dreams. And the worst part? The worst part was that it almost felt welcoming. Like going back to that prison would be better than staying where you were.
You started to remember things. Or rather you started to remember how much you forgot. How after years of darkness, it started to feel less like a prison and more like enlightenment. Freedom didn’t mean the ability to go wherever you wanted, or do whatever you pleased. Freedom was a lack of burdens. Freedom was feeling like nothing was tying you down, like all the weight was lifted off your shoulders. And the only thing that could free you now was returning to a place where you could forget.
Forget your job, and your rent, and especially this one studio apartment hellhole you’re forced to stay in. You know what you have to do now.
You’re having strange dreams. Dreams about a cold lonely bed and four white plaster walls. Painted over after years of use without anyone bothering to actually fix them. The nightmares return. This time you’re stuck in a beige office, with a chair that wobbles slightly and a printer that never works. You toss and you turn, as they swirl into screaming matches and court cases.
Horrible visions plague you. Visions of unopened emails asking when you’re returning to work. The most recent one tells you not to come back. You see a small note dropped off at your cubicle telling you Patrica made too much soup and to let her know if you wanted some.
Some old untouched gifts sitting in a dumpster, with the faded wrapping paper peeling. And finally, an apartment closed off with police tape. There’s blood leaking out from under the door.
You wake up in a dark room.
The walls are damp and worn down from years of scratching and digging.
People have died here. The only remaining echo of their lives is a gouge in those unforgiving walls. A pebble or two they chipped off with their nails. Their blood added to the relentless thirst.
Do you know why you’re here? Of course you do. You’re here to forget.
Ending 13/16