You've Got Mail (Noir)

She'd always send me text messages. Always when I wasn't expected them. Three in the morning, on a rainy Wednesday, or sometimes just before I went to bed. Each time I'd flip open my phone, and hear the automated voice and message simultaneously notify me, "You've got mail". What's even stranger is they always managed to come at the most delicate of times. Whenever I found myself in need of someone with no one around I'd always get a perfectly timed text message or voice mail. Always from her. I'm not one for miracles or anything, so you won't see me trying to convince you that she's some kind of angel. All I know for sure is that she's one of the best friends that I've had or ever will have. And that I fell in love with her.

Part of me couldn't help it. Lonely people fall in love easily. Most won't reject it when it's offered. Even if it isn't any good they'll try it out first and make decisions later. For most people in love the three magical words to make them smile are simple. Mine had a contraction which combined four words in to three. I guess you could call it cheating the system, but I'm not one for technicalities. Naturally when the text messages and voice mail stopped I wasn't in any kind of mood that could be considered anything better than pitifully denied. It wasn't that the loneliness was all that bad. In the years previous to her I had gotten used to it. Built up an immunity. I suppose it was like a cheap four dollar steak that leaves a bad aftertaste in your mouth a few years after you eat it. And here I am without any mouthwash.

Seconds and minutes blurred with hours. Hours blurred with days and days with weeks. Birthdays passed by, both my own and others, without any notice or celebration. I didn't even know how old I was. Just that I was alone, and had been for quite some time. Struggling in existence like everyone else. Funny thing about life. Some people think everyone's special. Some think nobody is. I only thought that I wasn't. But I knew she was. Like a fool I charged my phone every night. Like an idiot I would roll out of bed each morning and stare back at the solitary time displayed on the screen. If she sent a message I'd see a little piece of paper, or a microphone. But every morning all I'd see were three, sometimes four if I was tired, numbers staring me straight in the face, with a colon to separate them as though it were a dagger in my heart.

As I said before, I'm not a person partial to miracles. I don't think about God, since I don't think he thinks about me. The same relationship strangers share. So when I had finally decided that I was stealing too much air from more worthy inhabitants of reality, I was ready. Pills in the cabinet. Gun on the table. Rope in the shed. Hands in my pockets. Which was it gonna be? I took time to ponder it over like a prisoner licking his lips wondering what his last meal should be. How far away was I? A minute? A couple seconds? A few brief moments in time which everyone else has taken for granted? I don't remember. The only thing I recall is hearing a "bleep" come out from my phone on the table. I stopped tying the rope around the fan. With the noose still around my neck I walked over to my bedside table. The light wasn't even bright enough to tell what the screen said. But I had that piece of paper burned in to my mind for years. I knew exactly what it was, and who it was from.