The figure didn't not even bother to acknowledge my mere
existence, as she knocked into me. I did not proceed to make out her appearance, as it would appear useless. The only thing I was concerned about in this
moment was the throbbing headache that followed.
I was on my way to El Cheapo, to pick up some food that my
mother would’ve looked down upon, from her frosty throne all the way in
Poland. The treatment I’ve received from
certain people in this town was enough to make me stress-eat like crazy. My savings were going down with every
stressful encounter I had, leaving me nearly broke. Penniless, jobless, and about to be
dignity-less. Fortunately, I was reminded
of my mere blessings, as I passed a homeless woman, shivering,
hugging her scrappy dog close. I nearly
shed a frozen tear, as I scavenged in my pocket for a bill or two. I dropped the pitiful amount I found into the
woman’s outstretched hand, feeling good about myself as I continued on my way
to El Cheapo. One point for Lucja.
The chilling air bit at my cheeks, giving me a sense of
nostalgia, from the comparable weather in Warsaw. A couple weeks ago, I found myself scoffing
at the weather here in Collingwood. It
appeared the weather gods dually noted my attitude, as they had indefinitely
proved their abilities.
By the time I walked into El Cheapo, it was near half past
four. I rarely ever walked into this
rundown store with intent to buy any item in particular. I left the decision up to fate, as I circled
the aisles, contemplating what high-calorie food I should purchase. A pack of crumbling Donettes and a Sprite
were enough to settle the little encounter I’d had earlier with that girl. She looked a bit familiar, I thought, as I
made my way to the cash register.
Perhaps a bit too familiar.
Could’ve sworn I’d seen her roaming the halls of Collingwood
Heights. Eh. I’d never paid too much attention to the
other occupants of the apartment building.
I was far too deep in my own affairs to concern myself with those of the
residents.
The man behind the counter regarded me with a bored
expression. Setting the two items before
him, I dug around in my pocket for whatever change was due. The sound of the cash register clicking
alarmed me. “Two-seventy five”, the man
said with a snap of his gum. I pulled
out a tattered dollar bill, two dimes, and a nickel. Shit.
I completely forgot I gave the rest of my pocket change to the
hobo. The sound of the man popping his
gum alerted my attention back to him. “You gonna pay?” I sighed.
“Sorry, don’t have enough money, sir.”
In response, he nodded to the door, signaling me to be on my way. I reluctantly collected my pathetic pile of
cash and headed to the door. The sweets
and soda sat lonely on the counter, and I felt their beckoning call upon
me. Unless..no. Hell no.
I was not the thieving-type, and I would certainly not become one
today. My thoughts were interrupted by
the sound of snoring. I turned my
attention back to the counter. The man,
who’d been as lively as can be a minute ago, was caught in a deep slumber. A feeling of urgency took ahold of my
fingers, an itching sensation I had never felt before. All sense of control was lost before I knew
what I happened. I dashed to the
counter, grabbed the items, and was about to run out the door when a bottle of
Advil caught my eye. I quickly
contemplated, decided to ditch the meds, and bolted from the shop, giving off
the most suspicious appearance I had ever assumed.
Panting, I reached Collingwood Heights. I decided not to give my thieving any more
thoughts, as remorse would surely drive me mad.
The row of mailboxes awaited me when I walked into the
mailroom. My finger brushed the cold
metal surface, as I searched for 11-04.
“11-04, 11-04,” I murmured.
Ah. Found it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little
silver key, that I was quite capable of losing, given my track record with
small objects. I was surprised to see a
non-ad related letter, when I unlocked the box.
The return address on the crisp white envelope alarmed me, and I felt a
ripple go through my system.
Lane Borowicz
805 Kelbierg St
Warsaw, Poland
03-XXX
My heartbeat quickened, and in a stunned response, I dropped
the envelope. I shivered, not from the
cold, but rather the racing nerves in my system. The address was written in none other than my
mother’s handwriting. My mother. And why was my father’s name missing from the
sender’s part of the address?
When I was younger, about seven or eight, I recall running
to the mailbox each evening gleefully checking the box for any sign of
mail. My parents would typically address
the return label as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Borowicz’, rather than my mother alone!
This could only mean one thing. A separation perhaps. My father has had a love/hate relationship
with alcohol for as long as I can remember, causing nightly arguments between
my parents. It was a rather unpleasant
living situation, but the streets of Warsaw were not kind to orphans, so I
toughened up.
I figured if my mother wrote me, it must relate to something
important. My mother…hadn’t made any
attempt to contact me since I ran away from home. It’s been about two months, two, very
peaceful months, since I heard from her, so this abrupt form of contact must’ve
be urgent. I gingerly retrieved the
letter from the floor, and, shivering, tore my way through the envelope. A thin sheet of paper was neatly folded- yup-
definitely my mother’s doing- and I hesitantly unfolded it.
The tiny handwriting read (translated from Polish to
English)
“Lucja,
Don’t question how I managed to find your residency. That is the least important issue you need to
concern yourself with. I’m planning on
keeping this letter brief, as with all future forms of contact I plan on having
with you.
You have dishonored this family, Lucja, with your
departure. It has taken me two months to
track down your address, and has caused the Borowicz family a lot of stress.
I simply wanted to inform you of the passing of your
father. As you presumably failed to pick
up amongst your years of residing here, he was a good man. A good husband. A good father, although this statement you
will surely contradict.
He died too young, Lucja, and I hope you pick up on some old
Catholic values, and pray for the fate of your father’s soul. For once, I would appreciate it if you tried
to follow the morals of this family.
Your father managed to see some value in you, and as a
result, has left you twenty grand. In my
mind, you certainly do not deserve an amount of money as large as this, but it
was in a section of your father’s will that he failed to inform me of. In order to respect his wishes, I will
grudgingly hand it over to you.
But don’t get ahead of yourself just yet. If you expect me to fork over this amount of
cash so simply, then you are quite mistaken, my dear.
I demand something in return. Something that will tempt me to not keep all
this money for myself.”
The last four words were all it took.
“Come back to Warsaw.”
Perhaps I should’ve stolen that Advil.