Zoetrope - A Prologue

It all began with a letter.

A half crumpled piece of paper tucked within a crisp white envelope. 

There was no stamp.  There was no postmark.  There was no return address. 

I had slipped open the flap, but I couldn’t bring myself to withdraw its contents, not after a whiff of thick, ominous perfume invaded my nostrils. 

Who knew what it meant, what secrets it held, but it gave me a heavy feeling.  Weighted down was an understatement.  I felt trapped beneath a bolder, an iceberg, a pack of lazy Saint Bernard’s who thought I had top sirloin in my pocket.

Instead I paced, wondering how long it would take to wear a trench in the cheap linoleum floor.  My tennis shoes gave a squeak with each about face.  All the while, the letter sat on the table, glaring at me with a condescending sneer each time I passed.  It mocked me, mocked my fear and beyond the steady white-noise hum of the fridge, I could almost swear I heard the shriek of twisted, maniacal laughter.

Why today? 

The day had started out so nice, so sweet.  It was the twitter of birds that I awoke to, not the shrill scream of my alarm.  I treated myself to a coffee, one of those tall-double-something-or-others that’s so popular.  It was good.  There wasn’t a line.  Traffic was in my favor, the mini-mart suddenly started carrying my favorite chocolate indulgence, and I even won ten dollars on a scratch-it card bought on a whim.

Why did it have to come today?

Eventually my steps slowed to a stop.  I couldn’t avoid it forever, though I couldn’t say my mind didn’t play out a dozen different scenarios where I gave it a heck of a try.  It was a steely resolve that I returned the letter’s glare, resenting the harmless way the flap hung open.  Its innocence was a lie.  I knew better.

By the time I finally yanked the letter from its temporary home on the table and greedily ripped the envelope open, I had only one remaining thought:

What’s the worst that could happen?