Brian Cameron - Fiction

home : Expression : Fiction

Eye for an Eye
In The Car
The Mailbox

The Mailbox

The Mailbox

By: John Jontry

A rusty screen door creaked open as Harold DeReuters stepped from the cool darkness of his house into the warm Georgia sunshine. Slowly, and with deliberate care he stepped down onto a short dirt path, leading to the mailbox at the front of his property. The mailman had stopped there only minutes before, depositing what could only be a large envelope or package.
Harold was excited. It would be his first mail in over three years.
The possibility of leaving his home and journeying to the mailbox had first occurred to Harold as he watched old Freddy Jones (the mailman) tug open the rusty box and push in a large, brown envelope, stopping first to clear away the cobwebs. Venturing outside, Harold was certain, was somehow forbidden; an imposing taboo holding him hostage within his oppressive dark home. But the promise of communication from the outside, perhaps news of death, or war, or true love..... This, he reasoned, was enough to justify a short excursion, just to the mailbox.
A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead.
With trembling fingers he had unbolted and unchained the door, his mind screaming at him all the while that if he left the house, he would surely perish. He paused a brief moment to gather his strength and to steady the feverish whirling of the demons inside his skull. Then, with a gasping show of determination, he wrenched open the door, pushed open the screen, and stepped outside.
The white-hot rays of the summer sun stabbed deep into his eyes, and for a moment he felt that the punishment he expected had been meted out by blinding him. After a moment, however, the brilliance faded, and his dusty front yard lay in front of him. In the distance, the mailbox waited.
On weak and shaking legs Harold stepped down from the stoop and onto the bare, earthen path. His body was now drenched in sweat, and his heart pounded a ruthless tattoo, causing his whole person to quiver and his vision to blur. Summoning up unknown reserves of strength the bolster his rapidly failing senses, Harold staggered forward. The mailbox was now a shining beacon, beckoning to him across the foliage of his overgrown lawn, pulling him down the dusty path. Time had stretched, altered; each heartbeat a year, each step a lifetime. He felt his strength ebb yet again, and in a panicked burst of fear, Harold lunged the last few feet to the box.
Resting his head against the warm, rusty surface of the box, Harold began to sob, the fear and terror of the journey replaced with a sweeping elation, a deep and profound feeling of fulfillment and expectation. Dreams of love, contentment, pure happiness flitted through his mind, and he truly and wholly KNEW that they only waited for him in his mailbox. His heartbeat had receded to a dull thumping in the back of his head, and he felt as if his mind had left his body and was now an impassive observer.
Dimly, he saw his hand reach and grasp the mailbox door.
With the slightest of tugs, it fell open.
He grasped the large brown envelope, and pulled it slowly from the box.
The warm, gentle rays of the summer sun caressed the rough brown paper, as he gazed upon the words printed in bold type across the envelope.
Somewhere, off in the infinite distance, Harold became aware of a shrill, piercing scream, drawing closer.
The scream was his own.
The mocking summer sun was the last thing Harold ever saw.
The body of Harold DeReuters lay face down in the dust outside his shabby Atlanta home. Inches from his sightless, staring eyes were the words that had killed him.
"You may already be a winner....."

To Top