The Red Envelope.

An ungrateful woman learns just how lucky she is.

The Red Envelope.

A short story by Kim Mathews.

Based off of a fable I read somewhere online; just wanted to expand it a little. The idea is not my own, but this rendering off it is.

         “D****t!!” As Sarah looked down at her watch, she couldn’t help but express a slightly colorful expression; she was over an hour late for work, and it was only her second week.
         “Not like it’s my fault! First the car, then stupid Davis and his damn rent issues…” she continued to mumble crossly to herself as she stormed out of her apartment in a rage. She’d got rear-ended the day before, so she had to walk the four and a half blocks to work.
         Feeling a cold, wet plop on her face, she looked up to a grey and swollen sky. “Awesome. It would rain on a day like this. I should just quit and use my master’s degree for a Big Mac wrapper...” she said to herself. Not that she didn’t like her job; she did a lot. It was just lately that nothing seemed to go in her favor.
         Head down to avoid the wetness falling from the sky, she didn’t see the homeless man charging like a bat out of hell after her.
         “MISS! PLEASE, HELP ME!” He yelled after her, about a block away. She turned around, and seeing no one else, assumed the raggedy hobo was addressing her. She decided to cross the street; she couldn’t even handle her own problems, let alone someone else’s.
         “Ma’am, PLEASE! It’s life or death!!”
         That phrase got her. She stopped, hesitated for just a moment before turning around and saying, “Look, I’m already late for work, and-“
“Please, it will only take a moment!” He pleaded. She looked at him; he really was a pathetic looking person. He was maybe in his early to mid twenties, needed a bath, and a good meal wouldn't hurt any. His dirty brown hair was sticking out in tuffs under his sopping wet beanie, and his expression was one of desperation.
         “Fine! What do you need?” she snapped, hands on her hips. At least she would have an excuse to be late, she thought sarcastically to herself.
         “Oh, thank you! I don’t have time to explain, just please deliver this for me!” he said, almost cried, even. And before Sarah knew it, he had thrust a red envelope into her hands and had run off.
         “What the…?” she said softly to herself. Standing alone on the wet and dismal walk way, she took some time to study the envelope.
Aside from being red, it was extremely ordinary. Sealed in the front, no markings of any kind except a sloppily written address jammed into the upper left hand corner. 42 East Second St-That was on her way to work.
         “Well,...it wouldn’t hurt. Seemed so important to the poor guy.” She muttered. She headed off again, and a few minutes later arrived at her destination.
         It was a singularly nondescript house that would be pretty easy to overlook if it wasn't for the door the same color as the envelope: blood red.
         “Now why did I think of that?” she thought. She’d never been a superstitious person before, so she shrugged off the feeling of unease that had crept up on her and walked up the sidewalk to the door.
         The grass on either side of the sidewalk was extremely overgrown, and the color of corn in late fall. The overall appearance of the house was very unkempt, and she wondered how anyone could live there. The shutters were hanging off, holding on by just a hinge, and most of the paint was chipped off or so molded from the weather that it was hard to guess at its original color.
         She got to the front door and knocked. No answer. She knocked again, harder this time, and the door creaked open. Looking from left to right, she slowly opened the door and went inside.
         The inside reflected the outside: disheveled, unkempt, and nasty. There was even a smell to it, like death, that almost blasted her over like a brick wall.
         There was no furniture in the room, save for some black plastic bags all over the place. The wall paper was yellow and peeling, and the ceiling was long gone; all that remained were the rafters showing the groundless rooms above.
         Wrinkling her nose, she called out, “Hello? Anyone here?” she paused, waited with her hand on the door about to leave.
         “I was given a letter to drop off, should I leave it on the floor, or..?” she perked her head, ears strained to catch the tiniest of sounds; but there were none. Sarah tossed the envelope on the floor with a shrug, and was about to leave when one of the black bags caught her attention.
         It was just a simple black bag, like the kind you would use to put leaves in after raking. But there was a rip in this one, and something was sticking out. She cautiously stepped closer, eyes straining to figure out what it was. It was long and thin, the color of a peach.
         “It almost looks like a…” she began to think, but never finished the thought as she realized she was right.
         “Holy S**T it’s a finger!!” she said yelled, tearing backward and falling over. She started to pick herself up, when suddenly a figure was standing over her.          
         “Where do you think you’re going, miss?” the large, bearded man said. She didn’t fail to notice the bloody cudgel in his hand.
         She let out a blood curdling scream and half crawled, half ran towards the door, frantically. Thankfully, luckily, she had left it open.

~~~~~~~~

         “Do you need anything for that coffee miss?” Officer White asked.
         “N-no, I’m fine.” Sarah replied, holding her mug tightly for warmth. “What was that?” she asked.
         Officer White plopped a manila folder on the metal table, which echoed slightly in the tiny interrogation room with a light thud.
         “Some sorta halfway point for black-market human body parts.” he said gruffly, flipping open the folder and showing her pictures of things she wished he hadn’t shown her.
         “What?!”
         “Not that uncommon nowadays, to be honest.” he said, giving her an uneasy look.
         “And the man?” she asked.
         “Name's Richard, he's the ‘owner’, middle man, whatever you want to call ‘im.” He said, waving a meaty hand in a nonchalant manner. “Bigger guys up than him would come, buy whatever he’d happen to get that week and then sell it in bigger cities.” his greying  mustache quivered the entire time he spoke.
         He paused for a moment. “My question is though, where’d ya find this at?” he asked suddenly, leaning across the table and pulling the red envelope out of the manila folder.
         Sarah swallowed. “... I’m not sure who he was. What I thought was a  homeless guy came running up to me this morning, said it was life or death, then before I knew it....He was gone." she said with a slight shudder. She pulled her jacket tighter around her.
         "Do ya wanna read it?” he asked abruptly.
         “….Do I want to?” Sarah replied. She looked at him, and he hesitated for a second before responding.
         “I think ya should. That guy didn't give you this on a whim, ya know.” With that, he slid the envelope across the table. She picked it up hesitatingly; to think something so simple could be so insidious.
         With a rip, she broke the seal and pulled out a small, crumpled note that read, This is your last delivery for the week Rich, make it count.

Author's Note

This is my first short story with a decent amount of dialogue in it. Please tell me how I did! I don't really know.

Reviews

[Lonnie Paul Johnson]

Great story, very well written and I like the dialogue too. I'm assuming that Sarah was the last delivery, please tell if I'm wrong about that. Good stuff keep writing:)