It's all about the letter

Chapter 3

Chapter 3. 

He had received a letter that no one would like to see on a sunny, lively morning of another not-so-freezing Fall day. The letter, which would turn blood cold even in the dead, despite the twenty-degree temperature.  

However funny it might seem that a piece of paper can ruin someone's life, but he would never agree with it; if only he had known this before opening the envelope, he would have torn it apart and burn it up right away.

There was a post office in front of him, which looked at him silently as his hands shivered and breath deepened. The Fear inside was the one to take the reins over him for a while until he would be ready to step up again.

What exactly was in the letter? His mind did not let the sight of it, as if trying to see through its non-transparent material. There could be anything from bills of his previous house to a reminder that he was nearby.

It was almost the end of October when he had pressed himself upon going to the post office after ten days of reluctance. Wings of chilly wind fluttered around the streets, and were the reason of scattered reddish leaves of nearby half-naked trees.

The first option was unlikely. He had changed two towns during the last six months and had given his new address almost to no one

He fiddled the letter for a while in his hands, feeling each side of it with his rough fingers. In the end, he only managed to toss the envelope into the right pocket of his black knee-length coat and headed down the street. Nowhere exactly, just away from the post office.

There was something evil in post offices. No one actually noticed it despite his attempts to ask other people, including his friends, but they all said that they had never even paid attention to this, but he did.

Post offices were troublemakers. The first time they brought commotion into his life had been around twenty-two years ago, which ruined his family peaceful life and brought it to pieces.

His mother had prepared an amazing, fragrant meal that evening: spicy roasted chicken wings with potato wedges and fresh orange juice to compliment the meal.

Growing up as a child, he almost never saw his father, as he was on business trips most of this time even though he had never told anything of them even if asked.

They sat together in the dining room that evening, idly chattering about his school and future life plans, until the letter came.

He saw it a bit later in the dark night when his parents had finally gone to bed after four hours of arguing and loudly hollering at each other. The letter, which he had illuminated with the light from a wax candle, said:

Dear Jack,

I know it has been a long time since we were in touch, and I am truly sorry for it; but, you know, there was nothing I could do about it even if I tried my best. They took away all blank papers and feathers, so the only way I could write a letter for you, my dear brother, was with my own blood. Even if I did it, though, they would not let me send it anyway.

Long story short, I have awful news for you; Julie, our mother, passed out last month, precisely the same day as they finally let me out. Thereby, I am glad to inform you that you will have the pleasure to host me for a couple of months or even more if life brings us such. I will be by your front door in two days after you receive this letter, say hello to your beautiful wife and my lovely nephew.

Sincerely yours,

Nathan.

The letter apparently was written for his father, given the name Jack at the top of it, which inclined to think in this way. Nathan, his father's brother and concurrently his uncle, indeed wound up by their door two days later with a fearful thunderstorm behind his back.

Three months after the letter and Nathan came, he became homeless right on the day of his fifteenth birthday.

He lived by begging from door to door ever since. Fear was replaced by Hate. His instinct to flee away from that notorious home of his, and the bloody murderer of his family, changed, little by little, to the desire of vengeance.

Now, as his legs carried him off in the opposite direction from the post office, and Fear started to kick in the doors of his house, there were only two desire in his mind: burn the post office down to ashes, and take a revenge on that vicious monster.

No wonder that his feet carried him to some shabby bar, as it was the only place for a wrecked soul to end up coming if they could not find peace in their lives. Everyone had their own reasons, but he believed that his own reasons were much more justified than anyone else in the bar could oppose.

Alcohol was not his passion, though. He did, indeed, go in for some shots of whiskey or rum every other day, but never went all in to get wasted and forget even his own name. His ex-wife, however, did not share his side in this matter, and tried to make him give up on drinking and starting to get the grip in his life, but that was, mayhap, the main reason why she was ex after all.

"Take a shot or hit the deck," was written in a sign that hung over a front door of a bar, which was jammed by two other featureless, plain buildings.

With a smile on his face, of someone who had found a Klondike, he threw the front door open and strolled in.

The whole ambience of the bar inside was swaddled up by darkness, which was diluted only with neon lights that were mounted on the wall all around. Light, old school hip-hop consisting of 2 Pac, Dr. Dre or even House of Pain played on the background to give the bar a special underground atmosphere, which he almost paid no attention to.

Some tables and lounges with cozy, soft cushions were placed here and there, mostly occupied by faceless visitors who puffed on the vape or drained another shot of alcohol.

The moment as he walked in the hall, a waitress popped up before him. He was welcomed by her, and offered a few still available places to occupy. In the end, he ended up choosing a small table near one of the windows to stay alone, but be able to see people from the side.

Observing sometimes was much better than participating.

The waitress was a young woman, beautiful but nothing special. He managed to squeeze a stingy smile at her, and nodded curtly when she offered him whiskey.

In a few moments, she disappeared in the thick crowd and her vanilla perfume were no longer present.

As he sat there at the table, he did not waste his time, but examined carefully the audience of the bar at first; and, having found nothing interesting, he switched his attention and gazed at passersby behind the half-shut window.

Boring.

The day was dragging on, and not in the pleasant way whatsoever. There were many options that he could do at that time, for instance, leaving the bar idea behind and choose to keep doing his daily chores, but no.

"Your whiskey. How else may I serve you, Sir?" She was exceedingly polite for a person who worked in a bar, which was rather curious than weird.

"I believe you will," his hoarse voice snapped back at her, making her to feel goosebumps on her skin. She left without saying a word back, but her wagging gait said everything he required.

He groped for the letter in his pocket and threw it carelessly upon the table surface. Why the hell was he afraid of opening a damned letter? He took a few sips from his glass of whiskey, and started to break the seal on the envelope.

He had only anticipated was could be inside. A letter from him? His mother's dying letter? A love-letter from one of his many lovers? Well...

What came next would the beginning of the end, but he would realize it too late.