It Finally Came In The Mail

Louie Howden,
Inwriter

So, there I am reading my favorite book about people who have disappeared, when I hear a buzz at my door. A visitor? A friend? No impossible. I open the door to see a man dressed in a postal worker's uniform, his face has begun to melt off and he is slowly sinking into the sidewalk as he walks toward his van. I notice the small metal mailbox to the right of my door has a sealed envelope sticking out of it that wasn’t there before. As I open the seal the envelope lets out a high-pitched squeal and it spasms, then it ceases moving and falls silent. To my pleasant surprise the contents of the envelope have exactly what I’m hoping for, a signed letter from the governor declaring that my mind is completely gone; finally after years of hard work and effort I have been officially declared completely insane. It feels so strange to be this young and already so accomplished.

If father could see me now; well he might be a bit horrified, but also I’d like to think he’d be somewhat proud, since I’ve been working towards this for such a long time. Certificate in hand, I slam my front door shut, and practically skip down my hallway.

“Mother! You’ll never believe what came in the mail!” I call out. From down the hall I can see mother, as usual sitting on a lawn chair in a photograph of her from 1968 mounted on my wall; she hasn’t left that photograph for years. I can already see that she’s glowering at me with disdain, and I decide that upon second thought I don’t need to talk to her about this. It’s not like she’d have anything nice to say. I don’t want to hear anything right now that ruins the good mood I have going.

Clutching the certificate lovingly to my chest I giddily walk to my room and close the door behind me, but I make sure to leave it a half-inch ajar, just in case anything wants to come in. My mouse Marty is spinning on his wheel but stops when I enter. Marty has the face of my dead father and often speaks to me in a slow methodical voice, almost as one would a child.

“Are you finally happy now Louis? Is this enough for you?” he asks me.

“I don’t know. But it’s a start,” I reply. I hop onto my bed and tuck myself under the covers, burying my face into a pillow.

“Tomorrow’s going to be good. I’m going to stay in bed, nothing crazy,” I say and turn off the light, allowing the warm soft dark to wash over me.

“Good night Louis. You know that I can’t help you right? You know this?” Marty asks.

“I know,” I answer and grin broadly. I still feel so over the moon. Things are going well for me, so extraordinarily well. I simply can’t believe how great I’m doing.

For more articles by Louie Howden, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email howden.louie@surrealtimes.net.


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