Prompt:
"You are helping out at a charitable center by organizing donated items. When searching through an old suitcase, you find a suicide note dated six months prior. What’s peculiar is that you know the person. What’s even more peculiar is that the person is still alive. Write the story about what happens when you pay that person a visit and ask him or her about the note."
Story:
I blew my warm breath into my freezing cold hand. I cleared my throat one more time and pushed
the anxiety down in my stomach. Finally,
I garnered the courage to knock on the door.
My stomach turned as I waited for the sound of the deadbolt to disengage.
Please disengage.
This started two days ago.
I was at Goodwill as I always did on Saturday mornings, helping them
sort through newly dumped items from the week.
The brief case was pretty simple.
Actually rather nice for a Goodwill drop. Fancy brown leather; shiny, gold latches and
lock. I did my quick sweep and there,
hidden in the top file folder, at the very bottom of the brief case, I found
the letter. I usually do a quick glance
over something like that to make sure it wasn’t anything of major importance
and send it to the paper shredder. But
with this letter, I was caught with the opening line, which read:
If you are reading
this..
And was followed by a thorough description of why this briefcase
would be found either floating down the Manatee River or found in the weeds of
some embankment. The letter was a
suicide note, a very precise description of the man who had penned the
note. My heart stopped as I recognized
the address. Then the names of next of
kin. And finally, my Pastor’s name was
signed at the bottom. I had quickly
jammed the letter in my pocket and told the store manager I had to go. I drove home in a daze, the now crumpled
letter staring at me on my passenger seat.
I was not sure what to do next.
The letter had been dated six months prior. And I knew my Pastor had not seen it through,
he would confirm that the very next day when he gave a sweeping sermon about
forgiveness and moving forward in life.
I shook his hand like I always did on Sunday, filling my role as another
familiar face and extra name to memorize.
That was my only role in the church, until I decided I needed to say
something. If my Pastor, the person who
inspired me to live and trust God, had come to the point where he was willing
to take his life, I felt like I had to at least talk to him.
So there I was, desperately waiting to hear the deadbolt to
his front door disengage. I could feel
God watching me from high above.
That glorious click and slide finally hit my ears. It was Mrs. Thompson. I asked for her husband. Her eyes filled with tears. She asked me if I hadn’t heard. Offered a kind hand on my shoulder. I stared at her in disbelief. I rebutted.
I told her I had just been in church yesterday. I had seen him, heard his words, just as I
had the last six months, every Sunday.
Tears fell down her face as she said it wasn’t possible. The church was gone.
We are all gone,
she said.
I backed off the porch in disbelief, almost stumbling down
the brick stairs. I turned to run toward
my car. It was no longer there. I looked back at the house and the door was
shut again, Mrs. Thompson gone. In her
place, yellow police tape lined the door.
The grass was tall and unkempt, which I had remembered it being neat and
trimmed as I had approached. I ran
toward the church.
On my way there I began to notice that there was no one
around. No one driving in the streets,
no one walking along the sidewalks or sweeping their front porches. No one.
The church was about six miles away, a distance I had never
covered running before, but I crossed it with ease today. I approached the last corner, a large
concrete building which obstructed the view of the small chapel before I turned
and hurried across the street. The
church was still there. What was Mrs.
Thompson talking about?
I opened the door.
The full congregation was sitting in the pews. They turned and smiled at me. At the front of the altar was Mrs.
Thompson. She smiled at me as well. But her husband was not standing by her
side. I did recognize the figure next to
her though. And while He was nothing
like all the pictures that filled western culture, He was beautiful. He held out His hand to beckon me
forward. As I walked down each pew I
noticed that the congregation was transforming before me, their images turning
to light and vanishing in a bright fade.
And they couldn’t seem happier to be vanishing. Behind them, the pews I walked past were
turned to burnt ruins. The front door of
the church barely stood, but the walls were burnt down around it.
It’s time to let go,
Mrs. Thompson’s voice caused me to turn back toward the altar. It’s
time to come home.
It was no longer cold.
He held out His Hand. And in my
mind, I remembered that day, the fire had swept quickly. The doors had been locked. We couldn’t get out. And now I knew who had caused it. He had locked his congregation in and
destroyed us all. And then taken his own
life jumping off a bridge.
His hand was warm and gentle. He lifted me up to the altar.
It is time to come
home, my son, you are forgiven. You will
never have to think of that terrible day again.
You are saved.
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