The Parcel

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic


A parcel for his wife. Only for her. What's inside? How will he get his hands on it? ***WARNING: vulgar and offensive language***

Submitted: April 11, 2018

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Submitted: April 11, 2018

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There comes a knock at the door.  Two solid raps.  I’m upstairs, my stomach knotted in grief, my legs on the verge of collapse.  I am ready to break down into another flood of tears and hoarse moaning when I hear the door.  I gather myself, suppressing all the heartache I feel before hurrying downstairs.

My feet shuffle more quickly the closer I get to the door.  Another two knocks repeat as I hurry through the living room.

“Coming,” I call.  I take a deep breath as I take hold of the door handle.  I push the vestiges of my emotional turmoil into my gut.  I’ll have time to cry later.

When I open the door, a man in a brown uniform is patiently standing before me, a small cardboard box tucked under an arm, an electronic pad in his other hand.

He smiles as he sees me.  “Good morning, sir.  I have a package here.”  The man holds the parcel against his stomach as he checks the name printed on the tracking slip.  “It’s for a Jane Mcarden.”

A cold chill grips me.  I feel the colour drain from my face.  My throat constricts.  Who could this parcel be from?

“That’s my wife,” I say in a gravelly voice.

“Is she here, sir?  I need her to sign for it.”

“No, she’s not.  But I can take it.”

The courier frowns.  “I’m sorry, sir, but I need her to show ID and sign for it.  Only her.”

“Oh.”

Now I’m vexed.  What could possibly be in that little box and who could have sent it?  Anger begins to build inside me, a slow rising heat replacing the cold bodily chill.

My mind formulates a list of people who could have sent her something so mysterious.  The co-worker she has dinner with on occasion.  Her boss.  The cashier at the health foods store.  The jeweller she gets along with so well.  All of them could be a secret lover she thought I don’t know about.  Any of them could have filled that whore’s needs while I’m at work.  I’m not as clueless as that stupid bitch wanted to believe.  I know what she’s been doing.  There are many men in Jane’s life I know she’s fancied.  Many men she fancied over me.  It didn’t come as a surprise when I finally realized she was sneaking around with at least one of them.

I can feel my face redden with my rising anger.

“Is there a better time to come back?”  The courier can see I’m not happy.

“Well, she’s out of town right now.  Try next Wednesday,” I say.

“Thank you, sir.  Have a pleasant day.”  The courier nods and returns to his truck with the parcel.

I watch him drive off.  My temper is hot.

I quietly close the door and return to my room.  The urge to break down into a wailing mess of tears is no longer there.  I feel no trace of sadness now, no inkling of remorse.  I pace my room, fuming.

 

 

The week goes by slowly, yet Wednesday comes fast.  Eight days I’ve had to wonder what the hell is in that box.  What is so important, what is so secret that I cannot take possession of it for my wife?  The mystery consumes me.  Jane won’t be home for the courier again who will be coming any day now.  It only adds to my seething temper.

I’ve spent the week trying to control my temper, trying to convince myself that I’m letting my imagination run wild.  I try to tell myself that it could be a package from her aunt or her mother, but I know that’s a lie.  They would have called to give us a heads up if that were the case.

I know the whore has been sneaking around with at least one other man.  The package is probably from him.  That slut got sloppy in hiding her affair.  She stopped caring if I found out.  I’ve never let her catch on to the fact that I know, but I do know.  The frequent trips out of town, holing up in the spare bedroom to have private phone conversations with her “mother”, the fear in her eyes, and her continuing distancing from me; I know that loose bitch has been enjoying another cock inside her.  I fucking know it!

Two knocks sound at the door.  It’s him.

I take several deep breaths.  I focus on pushing my anger into the pit of my stomach, but it won’t stay down; I know Jane’s lover has sent her something and I know I won’t get my hands on it today again.  The thought is an endless stream of fuel for my fury.

I hurry downstairs, moving with purpose.  I just want to get this over with so I can go back to my room and fume.  I feel like breaking something.  Something of hers.

It’s a different courier when I open the door.  He has the package in one hand, an electronic pad in the other.

“Good evening to you, sir,” he says with such cheer.

I could punch him in the face.  His smile and bright demeanor are disgusting.

“I have a package here for a Miss Jane Mcarden.  Is she home?”

I shake my head.  “She’s away on business,” I say.  “Could I take that for her?”

The courier shakes his head as I expected.  “Sorry, sir, but it can only be delivered to her.”

I nod.  I feel defeated, which causes my anger to rise.  “I understand,” I manage to say calmly.

“Is there a better time to come back?”

I shrug my shoulders.  “Try next week.”

“Okay, sir.  Thank you very much.”  The courier casually salutes before returning to his truck with the parcel.

I watch as he drives off.  Once he’s out of sight, I slam the door shut and stomp back upstairs.  My rage is flaring.  Again, that parcel eludes me.  I am powerless to get my hands on it without the help of my slut-bag wife.  Why am I being punished?  Why didn’t she suffer the way I am?  It’s not fair.

My body trembles, clutched by fury.  My face beams heat.  The pictures of Jane in the hall taunt me as I return to my room.  Her smile is brighter and more sincere in each photograph than it ever had been when she smiled at me.  The fury bubbles.  My fists clench.  My breathing hoarsens, my shoulders rising and falling with each huffing breath I take.

The pictures on the wall rattle and the change on the dresser jumps as I drive the bedroom door shut.  The house thunders with my outrage.  I look around at everything I have, everything I shared with her.  The rage rises.  The tremor in my body grows more intense.

I am ready to tear the room apart.

 

 

My boss forced me to take three weeks off work to give my hands time to heal; he didn’t want to take the chance of me tearing open the cuts.  The doctor told me to use my hands as little as possible and not to lift anything heavy.  He doesn’t want my fingers sustaining too much physical stress or the wounds will tear open.  Both hands are bandaged.  Both sets of fingers are heavily wrapped in gauze strips and white bandages.  Oddly, no one has asked me what happened, except for the doctor.

A week’s gone by.  I’ve had plenty of time to think over the past week, to think about many things; my life, my wife, our problems, how things could have been different.  I’ve spent much of my time reflecting on the good old days and the not so good days Jane and I have had together.  All marriages have their ups and downs.  All people have their secrets.  We don’t often know the person we love is hiding an ugly secret until it’s too late.  I found out about Jane’s infidelity too late.

The week to myself has not only given me time to think and reflect, but it has also afforded me much time to scheme.  I dug through Jane’s duffle bag in the closet and found her driver’s licence.  I’m hoping this will be enough to convince the courier to trust me with the parcel.

I’ve been mellow all day, sitting in the living room, watching the muted TV, waiting for those two knocks to sound at the door.  I’ve been calm all week, ever since coming home from the hospital.  I haven’t slept in the bedroom since.  I pulled out a handful of clothes so I wouldn’t have to go back in there for a while.  The clothes are on the bed in the spare bedroom.  Eventually, I’ll have to clean up my bedroom.  There are shards of glass everywhere.

Noon comes and still no knock.  The clock reaches one o’clock and the house is still silent.  Two o’clock comes around and I’m still staring at the muted television.  My temper starts to rise, but I push it down; there’s no point in getting upset, the courier will be here at some point.  Then we’ll see if it’s worth getting upset.  Three o’clock rolls around and I start to get fidgety.  I want the courier to come today.  I want that parcel.

It’s quarter-after-three, technically three-seventeen when two knocks rap on the door.  I jump out of my seat, somewhat startled, somewhat anxious to see if my plan will work.  I take a deep breath to steady myself before heading to the door.

A man in a brown uniform is waiting when I open the door.  The electronic pad is in one hand and the parcel is tucked under his other arm.

The courier smiles as he sees me.  “Good evening, sir.  How are you today?”

It’s the same courier from two weeks ago.  This is good.

“I’m fine,” I pleasantly reply.  “Thank you.  Is this for Jane?”  I motion at the box.

“Yes, it is, sir.  Miss Jane Mcarden.  Is she in today by chance?”

I slowly shake my head, donning a mask of concern.  “She came home late last week, but had to be admitted to the hospital.  I’m afraid she contracted a virus while on her trip.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

I’m hopeful as I pull out the driver’s licence.  “I’m afraid I don’t know when she’ll be getting out, it could be a while, but I have her ID if this works.  I can sign for the package and bring it to her tonight if that’s all right.”

The courier scans the licence, carefully reading every bit of information on it.  He nods.  “That won’t be a problem, sir,” he says with a satisfied grin.  He scans the parcel with his pad then hands the pad to me.  “I just need you to sign, please.”

“Certainly.”  I try to hide my joy, but the satisfaction I feel threatens to overwhelm me.  I feel accomplished, no longer defeated by my wife and her lover.

I hand the pad back to the courier.

“Thank you, sir.”  He holds out the parcel.

A rush of elation floods my body as my bandaged fingers brush against the smooth cardboard surface, clutching the parcel.  It’s finally in my hands.

The courier salutes.  “Have a good day, sir.  I hope your wife feels better soon.”

“Thank you,” I say as I eagerly return inside, swiftly closing the door behind me.

I hear the truck drive off as I take a seat in the living room.  I am so full of joy, I want to jump in the air and scream and shout.  At last, I win!

I have a letter opener on the table by the chair.  I snatch it and hastily cut through the box’s seals.  I toss the letter opener back on the table.  The clatter of the metal on the glass sounds like applause to my ears.  I lift the box’s flaps, my excitement growing.  I pull out the packing paper, pitching it to the side.

Sitting in the open parcel is a box made of polished cherry wood.  My excitement fades and my fury rises.  I knew it!  A piece of jewellery for the whore!  Something from her lover to claim her as his!  Did she think I wouldn’t find out?  I take the wood box and chuck the cardboard box.  When would she have filed for divorce?  Would she have had the nerve?  I want to know who this man is!  Who was she fucking behind my back?

I lift the clasp on the box and open the lid.  My body goes numb.  Inside is a gun - a shiny, silver, nine-millimetre handgun, sitting snug in a velvet insert.  Next to the handgun, nestled in a depression is a full magazine.

I can’t tell if I’m shocked, furious or if I was on some level expecting this.

Laying over the gun’s handle is a folded piece of paper.  I take it and read it.

 

‘Defend yourself from him if you need to, Jane.

Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself anymore.

I don’t want you staying with him any longer.

Keep this on you when he’s around, and if you need to, use it.

Do not let him find it.  Come home to me soon, I have a room ready.

I know you’re very busy this month.  Call me when you can.

I love you, my darling.  We’ll sort this mess out when you’re safe with me.

Love, mom.’

 

I smirk as I read the note.  This would have been useful to Jane four weeks ago.


© Copyright 2019 Jeff Bezaire. All rights reserved.

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