{An experiment in Flash Fiction}
That morning I sat inside looking out the window. The view drew me outside and I lay on the crisp, chemically enhanced grass, my bare legs itching from the exposure. I licked my lips, my forehead started to sweat, and the evaporation of these liquids tickled as they left my skin. It almost burned. It was still early, and one by one my neighbors drove away to work. The cat had not even woken yet. The little sun that made its way to the ground was warm though, warm enough to dry out my skin. The beads of moisture that formed at the edges of my eyes also drifted away, and I was glad to see them go.
Desiree is my roommate. Or was, I suppose. That morning I went in to the bathroom to feed the cat, like I usually do. I guessed that Desiree had gone to work, because although her hours were never the same every day, not being up and making breakfast meant only one thing, that she had gone to work. But I had not heard her usual overwrought leaving routine, which involved a crescendo of sound, dropping and picking up of keys, whistling of the tea kettle. I had slept undisturbed, at least not by the noises of others.
Specks of cat litter stuck to my bare feet and followed me around the house; the old wooden panels creaked and moaned under my weight. I think I must have spent some time circling through the kitchen and living room and the twists and turns of the hallway doors, not doing anything really. I made coffee and burned my hand on the glass container, so I wrapped a piece of cold towel around the area and continued walking. Desiree’s door stood wide open; a streak of sunlight created a crisp panel of glow on the ground. I stood in the glow. Then I peered inside.
That’s when I found the box full of letters.
They have asked me the time frame of these events, but, see, I’m not so sure. I don’t usually keep track of the time. I couldn’t even remember what time I woke up.
I didn’t realize what they were at first. They were scattered all over the bed, some had fallen on to the floor, some unfolded and laying wide open, some closed and still tucked within their envelopes. Most of them looked like at one point they had been white, but were now faded to a sickly, burnt yellow color.
Although they were open, left as if disregarded, I felt guilty running my eyes over the careful, delicate cursive. I ran my fingers over the pattern on the ornate wooden box that had contained them, which sat wide open and empty, its insides lined with mossy green felt. They did not seem yellow with time, but with wear, as if by reading them over and over, they had been used up and had grown old. In a way, they were beautiful; I wish I could see them again, but I suppose they’re gone now. Someone must have taken them away.
I sat on the bed to examine them more closely, picking up several before I settled on one. The lines ran together in the most seamless manner, as if they had been meticulously edited during the course of a lifetime. I soon realized that they were all the same, or at least, variations on the same theme, contorted in subtle ways to fit the certain moods of the writer. Some expressed the thoughts optimistically, with fervor and hope. Other letters told the same story but with anger and bitter irony. Still others were so empty, abysmal, holding no hope of recovery or an answer. These were the hardest to read. The sun rose as I poured over the letters, up high over the house and then back down the other side.
And when she didn’t come home that night, I undoubtedly knew it had something to do with the box full of unsent letters. The last letter was dated on the day before she disappeared, but it looks old too. I don’t understand; it is unclear whether she has disappeared or been taken away. The intended reader is also nowhere to be found. I now live alone in the house, and to everyone’s surprise, I remain a suspect.
