Ten Letters

Ten letters were arranged neatly on little box on top of the computer monitor. They all had names, addresses and numbers. Every one of them had a little stamp on the right top corner. It was June but the stamps all had a Christmas theme. Ten little pretty green and red stamps decorated the white plain envelopes. The glow of the screen lighted the room and a fly seemed to buzz in and out the dusty computer monitor. It smelled like Alfredo sauce and a hint of lemon scent room deodorizer.

It was July and the little box was still on top of the computer monitor. There were only five letters left and, each one with a corresponding tacky little stamp. It smelled like vomit and the lemon scent shit. The computer screen was flickering and the chair was squeaking.

Two full letters were left on the box. Half of another letter was taped to the shattered computer screen. It was August and the fan was the only thing working properly. Two little red and green stamps were the only color in the room. The smell was sterile, a hospital smell. The bottom of the box was sticky and a couple of flies were stuck dead in there.

The box on top of the monitor was sealed with shipping tape. An un-filled FedEx label was next to the box. Ten little red, white and blue stamps were arranged next to each other outside the box. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and a hint of key lime pie. The monitor had a carton covering the shattered glass. There is a little smile drawn on the top right corner with the word lemon on the bottom. It was September.

The box, the monitor, the chair, the desk, the computer, and the stamps were gone. The fan was still there moving slowly from left to right and back. It was October and letters were pilling under the door. A fire extinguisher, a first aid kit, an empty jar of Alfredo sauce, an empty box of key lime pie and a lemon scent room deodorizer were all in a box next to the fan. A box of assorted poisons was in the closet at the top right corner. Taped to the wall in the closet were hundreds of letters with names, addresses and numbers. Each one had a red or green mark. One letter appeared to be missing from the center of the collage. On the top left corner was a box filled with stamps, all of them with little messages on them. Something was there under the box. A tall impeccably dressed man was looking around. In a few seconds after finding the box he collapsed on the floor.

Half a letter was under the stamp box on the top left corner of the closet. It was November and it seemed like yesterday when he discovered it all. The man was handcuffed to the toilet seat and the door was open. The letters kept pilling up under the door but they were all scattered. The lights flickered and the man was weeping. He had half a letter taped to his forehead. A man with hunting gear came in with the other half and shoved it in his mouth. It smelled liked sweat and urine.

It was December and it smelled like dead bodies. The man with the hunting gear had ten boxes wrapped in red and green paper arranged in a circle around him. He had an American flag covering him and a copy of an Anne Coulter book. He had a letter in front of him that began with: Dear Mr. President. He walked out with ten boxes with pretty little bows and FedEx labels that had the same address: 1601 Pennsylvania Ave. It smelled like apple pie and gunpowder.

It was January and the room was empty. The top middle part of the closet had a banner that read: the terrorists. Professors, journalist, politicians, activists, mothers, and students had pictures on the wall. Ten were circled and nice had letters. One had half a letter. The hunter was dead with most of his brain splattered on the American flag. He was the brother of the man with half a letter. It smelled like dead bodies and gunpowder. There was a headless body handcuffed to the toilet with a white blanket on top that read un-American terrorist. Red envelopes were pilled under the door with tacky little Christmas messages and special offers for the holidays. The neon lights from the McDonalds were still visible from the window, the fan was still working and the lights were still flickering. A book from Al Franken was on the bathroom and a bible dangled from the window room illuminated by the neon golden arches. When they opened the door the first letter on the floor that was pilled up in front of the door was from 1601 Pennsylvania Ave. It was a generic Holiday greeting next to a credit card offer from American Express. The mailman arrived to a convoy of policemen with another bunch of letters; credit card offers, coupons, catalogs, and generic Holiday greeting from the neighborhood politicians, that’s all he had.