My package arrived at my apartment last night.
I’m pretty sure that someone delivered it between 9:15 and 10:00. That’s the time that I took a shower and checked the latest news on the web. I went through some emails, too. Several of my contacts had notified about their packages having arrived, so I had to delete them from my address book.
All that took about 45 minutes. I’d checked my security cams before that, and the only thing out in the hallway was my parents’ welcome mat. It was my good luck charm. Their porch had pretty much been the only part of their house left standing, so seeing it outside my door always calmed me a little, not much, but I think maybe it’s keeping me sane.
So at about 9:15 or so, the hall was empty. I wrote the time down in my security log, so I know that’s right. Then, at 10:00, right after I’d checked my email, I checked my cameras again, and there it sat. A rectangular package put square in the center of that old mat.
It looked just like the ones I’d seen on the news feeds. Not much bigger than a tissue box. No labels, addresses, or postmarks of any kind – no surprise there, the government had shut down the post office and all delivery services months ago. No visible tape, twine, or wires but still somehow wrapped neatly in newspaper. I zoomed in on the package with the security camera to identify the newspaper. It looked crisp and current, but I already knew what it would be. The Hatton Courier. March 12, 1975. My hometown paper. Issued on my birthday. My spine itched all the way up to the base of my neck.
I knew the box was my package. I’d finally gotten mine. I’d known that eventually I would, but I still felt my heart pound up into my neck. I felt nauseous staring at it through the vidcams installed on the outside of my door. I flicked the monitor off and closed my eyes. Even with them shut, afterimages of the box floated across my vision. Vertigo gripped me, making me latch onto the arms of my desk chair so that I’d feel anchored to something and not be sucked away.
Breathe! A tiny part of my brain reminded me. The rational part. I was surprised it had survived. You’re having an anxiety attack. Remember the government videos! Focus on breathing!
I know! But I can’t stop holding myself down! I’ll fly apart! I’ll get sucked away! I tried to listen to the voice but it spiraled away. I was spiraling, too. Not down, but out – out from my desk, out toward the hall.
Where the package waited.
Some twist of gravity twisted my stomach and lungs like I’d wring out a washrag. The face on my skin felt like it was pulling it away from my skull. Bile rose up into my throat, threatening to choke me. My fingers dug into the clothbound arms of my metal chair so hard that I felt two fingernails rip completely off. Blinding, white pain flashed through me and I opened my mouth to scream. When no sound came out, I realized I’d stopped breathing entirely.
I gaped like a fish ripped from the water. No air came in, no sound came out. I thrashed in my chair. Nothing. From somewhere, I got the strength to thrust my body backwards hard against the chair back. My head ground painfully into the headrest. Another fingernail splintered. I felt blood spray onto my arm. My legs spasmed as I struggled to get oxygen to my dying lungs. My body jerked uncontrollably like I was seizing. My right foot lashed out and struck something. I heard a loud crack. I felt pain and wetness. My foot was bleeding.
My eyes snapped open. I’d hit the security monitor with my bare heel, fracturing the screen and leaving a bloody smudge. The monitor had powered back on, though, and still worked. There sat the box, but for some reason, my eyes focused on the mat this time. I put all the energy I had left into forcing the shattered image of that mat on the screen into my fading brain. The package was there still, but so was the mat. The old worn mat my mom had put on the porch for my dad to wipe his work shoes on. The raised ivy border, most of it flecked away over the years but enduring as discolored, ivy-shaped blotches against the background. The wide, overflowing flower basket that had barely kept any color at all after cleaning so many dirty soles. The faded remnants of a fancy script that like so much else in the world had fragmented and lost pieces of itself. In a happier time the mat had announced Welcome to our Friends. Now it greeted my frantic, bulging eyes with this message: We_come to ___end_.
A racking gasp of air invaded my body. I shuddered. My back arched. I gasped again. Air filled my deflated lungs. My good luck charm had worked. Concentrating on the mat had saved me. The tiny voice came back. It whispered, Breathe! I breathed. I hurt all over. I bled. My head and heart pounded. But I breathed.
I lived.
I’d survived the delivery.
But I still have to open the package…
I’m pretty sure that someone delivered it between 9:15 and 10:00. That’s the time that I took a shower and checked the latest news on the web. I went through some emails, too. Several of my contacts had notified about their packages having arrived, so I had to delete them from my address book.
All that took about 45 minutes. I’d checked my security cams before that, and the only thing out in the hallway was my parents’ welcome mat. It was my good luck charm. Their porch had pretty much been the only part of their house left standing, so seeing it outside my door always calmed me a little, not much, but I think maybe it’s keeping me sane.
So at about 9:15 or so, the hall was empty. I wrote the time down in my security log, so I know that’s right. Then, at 10:00, right after I’d checked my email, I checked my cameras again, and there it sat. A rectangular package put square in the center of that old mat.
It looked just like the ones I’d seen on the news feeds. Not much bigger than a tissue box. No labels, addresses, or postmarks of any kind – no surprise there, the government had shut down the post office and all delivery services months ago. No visible tape, twine, or wires but still somehow wrapped neatly in newspaper. I zoomed in on the package with the security camera to identify the newspaper. It looked crisp and current, but I already knew what it would be. The Hatton Courier. March 12, 1975. My hometown paper. Issued on my birthday. My spine itched all the way up to the base of my neck.
I knew the box was my package. I’d finally gotten mine. I’d known that eventually I would, but I still felt my heart pound up into my neck. I felt nauseous staring at it through the vidcams installed on the outside of my door. I flicked the monitor off and closed my eyes. Even with them shut, afterimages of the box floated across my vision. Vertigo gripped me, making me latch onto the arms of my desk chair so that I’d feel anchored to something and not be sucked away.
Breathe! A tiny part of my brain reminded me. The rational part. I was surprised it had survived. You’re having an anxiety attack. Remember the government videos! Focus on breathing!
I know! But I can’t stop holding myself down! I’ll fly apart! I’ll get sucked away! I tried to listen to the voice but it spiraled away. I was spiraling, too. Not down, but out – out from my desk, out toward the hall.
Where the package waited.
Some twist of gravity twisted my stomach and lungs like I’d wring out a washrag. The face on my skin felt like it was pulling it away from my skull. Bile rose up into my throat, threatening to choke me. My fingers dug into the clothbound arms of my metal chair so hard that I felt two fingernails rip completely off. Blinding, white pain flashed through me and I opened my mouth to scream. When no sound came out, I realized I’d stopped breathing entirely.
I gaped like a fish ripped from the water. No air came in, no sound came out. I thrashed in my chair. Nothing. From somewhere, I got the strength to thrust my body backwards hard against the chair back. My head ground painfully into the headrest. Another fingernail splintered. I felt blood spray onto my arm. My legs spasmed as I struggled to get oxygen to my dying lungs. My body jerked uncontrollably like I was seizing. My right foot lashed out and struck something. I heard a loud crack. I felt pain and wetness. My foot was bleeding.
My eyes snapped open. I’d hit the security monitor with my bare heel, fracturing the screen and leaving a bloody smudge. The monitor had powered back on, though, and still worked. There sat the box, but for some reason, my eyes focused on the mat this time. I put all the energy I had left into forcing the shattered image of that mat on the screen into my fading brain. The package was there still, but so was the mat. The old worn mat my mom had put on the porch for my dad to wipe his work shoes on. The raised ivy border, most of it flecked away over the years but enduring as discolored, ivy-shaped blotches against the background. The wide, overflowing flower basket that had barely kept any color at all after cleaning so many dirty soles. The faded remnants of a fancy script that like so much else in the world had fragmented and lost pieces of itself. In a happier time the mat had announced Welcome to our Friends. Now it greeted my frantic, bulging eyes with this message: We_come to ___end_.
A racking gasp of air invaded my body. I shuddered. My back arched. I gasped again. Air filled my deflated lungs. My good luck charm had worked. Concentrating on the mat had saved me. The tiny voice came back. It whispered, Breathe! I breathed. I hurt all over. I bled. My head and heart pounded. But I breathed.
I lived.
I’d survived the delivery.
But I still have to open the package…
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