Postcards

Notes

Notes

The soft morning light streamed in through the window and cast itself over the man’s sleeping body. With a muffled groan, Allen Bergman rolled onto his back and sat up on the edge of the bed. He stretched, scratched his stubbly jaw, and made his way into the kitchen.

He plugged in the cracked coffee pot and began to prepare breakfast until a familiar thump came from the front yard. Allen put aside his scrambled eggs and went to retrieve the newspaper. He sighed. As always the paper had landed in some sporadic place in his yard. He crossed the property, picked up the paper, and shuffled back to his house. As he walked up the steps, a bright white shape amongst scattered brown leaves caught his eye. He frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. When he received mail, which he rarely did, the letters were always left in his mail box. He glanced at the back of the envelope. No name. No address. He opened the door and tossed the letter onto the kitchen table. It was probably just information for the local church charity.

Allen continued to go about his morning. But his thoughts continued to drift towards the letter. There was something about it – something he couldn’t quite grasp. His curiosity finally overpowered the necessity of daily chores. He abandoned the pile of unfolded laundry and left his bedroom. Down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen he walked once again. He picked up the damp envelope and pulled out the crumpled paper. Allen read the scraggly text over and over again, trying to make sense of it.

You know you’re going to do it. It’s the only way to fix things. You have to end everything. You have to take your life.

J.R

****

He was practically running to the police station. Why did someone think he needed to end his life to ‘fix things’? What the hell was there to fix?  He hoped the police could give him some answers.

Allen was relieved to find Greg, his old friend, at the station.

“Excuse me, Greg. Might I have a word with you?” His voice was breathy from jogging.

“Sure. What’s troubling you, Allen?”

“When I was getting the paper this morning I found this note on my porch.” His hand shook a little when he handed the paper to the officer.

The officer took the note. His face distorted with confusion. “What in God’s name is this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t recognize the writing. And I don’t know anyone with the initials J.R.” A bead of sweat dribbled down his forehead.  He wiped it away with his sleeve.

Officer Greg was still looking at the note, his shoulders hunched. He shook his head. “It’s odd all right.” He mumbled.

“I’m worried it means something more than what I think it is.” Allen’s voice was quiet but intense. His mind was racing.

“And what are you suspecting it means?”

“I don’t know... Maybe one of my ex-girlfriend’s has a psychopathic boyfriend?”

 “I don’t think it’s anything like that, Allen.” Greg chuckled.

Allen balled his hands into fists. For an officer, he certainly wasn’t showing any concern or professionalism.  “Perhaps I should ask someone else...”

 “Listen, Allen. We’ve been having some trouble around here these past couple weeks, petty crimes; stealing and vandalism. I’ll bet this message has something to do with it. I can get someone to have a look at the recent graffiti to see if ‘J.R’ shows up in any of it. I wouldn’t worry too much just yet. It’s probably just some kid trying to stir up the neighbourhood.”

Allen shrugged. He had seen something about the crimes on the news.

“If you get any more of these messages let me know. I had better keep this in case it’s connected to the crimes.  I doubt it’s anything too serious but we can investigate if it gets worse.”

****

Allen woke up and went directly to his front door. His heart rate increased with every step. His friend’s words had eased his nerves at the time, but now his worries were fresh with the morning.  Letters like the one he received were not normal. Not even if it was a prank.

He opened the door and quickly searched his porch for the ominous message he half-expected to be waiting for him.

Nothing was there.

He shook his head.

“Letting this damn thing get to me…” He mumbled to himself.

A prank. That’s what it was. A prank. Just a prank. Just a prank.

Was there any sense in lying?

****

“Two more break-ins occurred last night. Officers are still gathering information –”

Julie Wellston’s face disappeared. The black screen silenced her monotonous voice.

Allen set the remote down and stared at the blank screen. His head was spinning. Her words and the words of the fourth note he found this morning buzzed in his head. He looked out the window and watched the snow fall. It did little to calm him.  His life felt out of control. His sanity seemed to rely on pieces of flimsy lined paper. But what could he do? The police still hadn’t figured out who was breaking into the homes and painting the town with four letter words. And who was writing these damn notes...

All he wanted was some answers.

****

Greg tugged at the end of his mustache as he usually did when he was deep in thought. The break-ins. The graffiti. Allen’s note. It was all connected. It was just a matter of who this J.R was. The crimes were getting worse. More frequent. More damage. Everyone in the town seemed to be on edge; especially Allen, who seemed more and more and more paranoid every time he saw him at the station. So far no witnesses had been able to give a sufficient description of the suspect. Whoever was committing these crimes was quick. Without a description they couldn’t get a facial composite. And without a facial composite the suspect could be walking around in broad daylight and no one would know. 

The turning of the door handle took him out of his reverie.

“We just got a call from Mark’s Mini Mart. He said he had some products stolen last night.”

“Well that’s great, Sarah. Now he or she has moved onto stores. Not just homes. That’s just damn great.” Greg scribbled the store name onto the growing list of targets.

Sarah was shaking her head.

“You don’t understand, Greg. They have security cameras there. We have footage.”

He stood up so quickly his chair scraped across the floor.

“Let me see it.”

****

Allen sat with each note he had received laid out on his kitchen table. The notes were progressively more violent. Describing different ways he could ‘end it all’. It was late morning and he was exhausted. Someone was knocking on his front door.

“Greg? What is it? Do you have any news about...?”

“I’m sorry, Allen. But you are under arrest for forced entry, stealing, and damaging private property.”

****

 “I... don’t understand.” He mumbled in disbelief.

“That’s you.” The officer stated. He was staring at the ground. He couldn’t look his friend in the eyes.

“But how? I have no recollection of this! My eyes are open... I’m not sleep walking...” His eyes darted across the screen where the blurred image of him stealing a pack of cigarettes was displayed. “I don’t even smoke!”

“Allen...” Greg looked at the other man, trying to find the right words. “Are you familiar with multiple personality disorder?”

****

The officers pounded on the door. They had allowed Allen to go home so he could relax and digest the information he had been told earlier that day. He had multiple personalities. It was him the whole time. The notes. The crimes. Everything. But now it was getting late and Allen needed to be collected before his personality changed.

“Allen? Allen are you in there?” The younger officer hollered.

“It’s no use. We’re going to have to break open the door.”

When the two managed to get inside they found him in the kitchen.

“Allen?” Greg asked.

“Who’s Allen?”

He was there. Physically he was there. Allen. But it wasn’t him. It was ‘J.R’. Holding a gun to his - Allen’s -, head.

Before the police had a chance to say anything, the gun fired.