Each and every day Mike achily gets out of bed letting his cheap quality sweat-stained sheets fall to the unswept floor. He pulls balled-up black socks back onto his feet, a hole on the heel flaunts itself. Running the palms of his hands down his forehead to his cheeks, stretching his face like old bread dough. He looks at the less-than-good watch that consistently stays wrapped around his left wrist. Nearly late to work again. Nearly late to his less than good job, delivering mail to the less than good citizens who fester in their happiness. Suddenly rushed, he pulls on his clothes and heads to the post office.
Driving his beater that was once a polished Subaru, that acted as his part-time home during the divorce- and also became his only prize from the divorce settlement- he pulls into the parking lot, next to his boxy mail truck. Checking his watch, he realizes he needs to get the daily mail load from out of the office if he wants to finish delivering before midnight.
The mail crate wasn’t that heavy. No stack of coupon papers, no random pamphlets. Wasn’t the time of year to send out endless voter registration forms- this time it was just a bunch of bills, maybe checks, some personals.
The first block is always the worst. His ex-wife, Steffani, is on that route, in the house that they had picked together, a house surrounded by a smooth well-kept hedge, outer siding painted a sort of baby blue, bought on a zero-interest loan. The life that had begun to pursue, would have been flawless, if not for the intensity of the marriage and the family drama that was tied to it.
Simply walking up the front stairs to the mail slot on the door made his stomach twist. Tempted enough to take a peek at who his ex keeps up with, what bills she has, where she’s been buying her things, enough information to just know what she is interested in these days. Speaking terms are far beyond a reachable goal, but seeing into her life through her mail is all he has left to reminisce.
Pulling the mail truck up in front of her house, he checks for mail. He looks up towards the house to see if she’s in the window. The mail truck has a loud engine, so he knows she can hear him if she’s home. And she knows he’s the mailman- he has been for nearly ten years. It’s what he wanted to be when he grew up; the person who makes the day just a little better, or a little worse.
Sometimes Steff doesn’t get any mail. Four letters today. No packages. Looks like three bills, one car insurance, one internet, one phone service. One from a Jeremy Wilson. Just by reading the name, Mike’s face turns hot. This is that guy who never let go of his high school sweetheart and decided that regardless of her marriage, would write her provoking letters. “I miss you”, “I still love you”, “give me another chance”, Jermey, Jermey, Jeremy.
It had been at least a year since Jeremy wrote a letter to her. Shortly before the divorce she had received one but Mike threw it in the trash before she could open it.
If she got this one, Jeremy might actually have a chance. Slipping three of the envelopes through the mail slot was simple, but the one seemed to stay housed safely within his hand. This letter from Jeremy would ride back down the sidewalk, outside of the perfectly trimmed hedge, and far away from his ex-wife.
Resting on the sunny dashboard, the envelope, the chicken scratch handwriting of a wannabe architect, the American flag postage stamp, the address; It all stared at him. Gleamed at him as he drove his route. Why did he keep it? Why would he let something so minor, eat at him, all the way to the point where he risks the entirety of his own occupation?
He left his front door unlocked. It wasn’t that he was in a rush that morning, but the town was small enough- small enough that most of the people could be trusted anyway. And there, after entering his own home, was he met with the decision- if he were to open the letter, the intrusion on his ex wife’s privacy would eat at him, yet, if he were to leave it closed and simply throw it out, he may never know what is between Jeremy and her. What if they had seen each other already, perhaps the letter is a gushy heartthrob about an entanglement that they had recently experienced with one another. Certainly, the letter would be the typical Jeremy wanting her back write up though, right?
Carefully peeling the letter open, his hands became ever so shaky- for ten years he spent delivering mail to people who trusted him with their personals. But here he was, standing at his own kitchen counter, peeling the envelope, sealed with the sticky lick-to-seal glue, open; The most intrusive, the most taboo thing that he may have ever done. He only wanted to know what the words on the inside said, what sort of story that they told.
It wrote:
Dear Steffani,
I know that my letters have had issues reaching you in the past, but I’ll cross my fingers with this one.
I understand that you’ve moved on. You’re happily married, but that doesn’t stop me from cherishing the time that we had together, the memories of your soft hair, the honey sun in your alluring eyes- I just wish that you would give me another chance to show you that the life you have now might be wonderful, but I can make it even better.
Remember when we were in high school and we drove past that house? You pointed to it and said it was the house of your dreams. It was a mansion, I probably laughed at the thought of myself living there- a multi-room multi-bathroom house probably sounded extremely far-fetched at the time- I wasn’t rich- remember we were driving your old car?
Anyway, I just signed on that house for us, if you’re interested.
-Jeremy
The thought made him angry to the core. Jeremy doesn’t even know about the divorce- sickening that another man would try to intrude on a happy marriage, not just sickening- creepy, creepy that one man would go this far to get the house of another man’s wife’s dreams.
In his desk drawer, Mike kept his own personal stationery. The desk itself, was essentially the timepiece of his life- the desk went everywhere with him- from his childhood room to his first apartment, to the house with Stef, to his current living situation. Simply by pulling the drawer out, memories were taken back. It was the same drawer he had once stashed his doodles and quick notebook paper sketches, the same drawer he had hidden his Playboy magazines in. The drawer that now keeps his essential envelopes, stamps, and paper. The magazines probably could have stayed, but Steff had found them when they moved in with each other- she took them, probably burned them.
A quick letter back to Jeremy, just stating that Steffani would not be interested in that, maybe a lie about how happy she has been would be all that the letter consists of.
Mike began to write but soon realized his own handwriting wasn’t the best in its natural form. Restarting on a fresh piece of paper, Mike wrote in cursive:
Jeremy,
After all these years, please leave me alone. I am no longer interested in you, or that house. I am perfectly happy where I am now.
Sincerely, Steff
Before beginning his route the next day, Mike dropped the letter off in the blue postage service mailbox. Hopefully, Jeremy would get it within a couple of days and move on.
But about a week later, Mike pulled up in front of the house to deliver Steff’s mail. A CountryLiving magazine, newspaper coupons, an envelope. Another envelope marked from Jeremy. The burning sensation of anger washed over Mike again. Why didn’t Jeremy listen to what “Steff” had to say? If she said she was not interested why couldn’t he just listen and move on?
Writing letters back to Jeremy became just about a weekly chore. It would go back and forth. Jeremy pouring his heart and soul into each letter, possessively trying to win Steffani back, and Mike pretending to be an uninterested Steffani.
Like a thousand pale maggots slowly working away at the decaying flesh of death, Mike was unknowingly letting his anger eat at his mind, at his own sanity, at his soul. With every letter that he would receive from Jeremy, the more the anger would build, yet the more exciting the game would become. To embody the voice of Steffani, to write her annoyance for Jeremy, and progress it to her hate for him, became a thrill. Mike could release his own anger through her empowerment, and yet, Jeremy had no clue that it was Mike writing back, and Steffani had no clue that Jeremy had been writing to her at all.
Yet, embodiment within the letters soon became not enough. Mike’s hatred for Jeremy grew to the desire to remove Jeremy from life itself. The idea transpired one evening while Mike was trying to fall asleep. His scratchy sheets caused annoyance, his pillow was too stiff. The streetlight from across the street was shining just a little too bright. It was almost 12:00 AM and he still hadn’t fallen asleep. Something just wasn’t right. He layed in bed and pondered, what would it be like to kill Jeremy? How would he do it? How would he hide it? Or would he simply get the job done and leave the body until someone else found the hollowed carcas?
After a few minutes, it boiled down to a have to rather than a what if. The urge to kill Jeremy, to remove him, became absolutely necessary. The itch, the desire, they grew until Mike had had enough.
The address to Jeremy’s house was on the letters he had been sending. A location just a few hours South of Mike’s house. Following directions had always been easy for Mike, part of the reason becoming the mailman lead to a relatively simple occupation.
The house was nice. It was certainly one that Steffani would have had an eye for. Certainly a house that she would have loved to have a happy marriage, raise a family, live life in. But the reality of the scum that resided on the interior disassembled all dreams.
Parked infront of Jeremy’s house, he could see through the night that only one upstairs light was still on. Most likely the bathroom light. The time was still an early 1:45 AM. The same night he had imagined murdering the man he grew so much hatred for, the reality kicked in that he was actually going to do it.
Mike was wearing the soft leather driving gloves that he had worn in the beginning of his mailman career. On the passengers seat, sat a chef’s knife, one that he had probably purchased for only a few dollars at the Wallmart. An inexpensive weapon, a tool nothingless. He could have easily found one inside of Jeremey’s house to use, but the act of killing someone with their own belonging didn’t seem perfect.
Like Mike’s, Jeremy’s door was kept unlocked. Slowly twisting the brass doorknob, and easing the door open just enough to go inside, the adrenaline began to rush. Through grey vision, Mike could see the outline of the kitchen. The floating island with pots and pans hanging above it, fancy kitchen appliances lining the wall. An electric stove with dim nighttime lighting above it presented more imagery to the scene than anything. Mirrored to the kitchen, past a set of carpeted stairs leading toward the second story of the building, he could see the reflection of that light in a large flatscreen T.V. That had to be the living room.
If you stand in another man’s home, and look around long enough, the best method of how you intend to murder him, will come to you. Killing Jeremy wasn’t an urgent task, it was necessary but not urgent. Mike thought that the hunt wouldn’t be as thrilling if he were to simply kill the man in his sleep. So determined, he crouched behind the kitchen island, and there he would crouch until daylight.
In the perfect World, Jeremy would wake up for work and come down to the kitchen to turn on his coffee pot, or atleast get a drink of water. And at that point Mike would plunge the chefs knife into Jeremy. He wasn’t quite sure where he wanted to strike, wether it be his abdomen first to throw him off, or the chest to cause collapse of the lung, It would certainly take more than one stab, Mike knew this. But he didn’t know how much Jeremy would bleed, if it was like the movies, or if it would be something entirely different.