My social media presence was not hijacked by love of a wandering preacher or kidnapped by a Pikachu herd. Moving into a new apartment always sucks, but the stress of chasing U-Hauls and changing the zip codes on all my credit cards were luckily offset by finding a studio in the perfect location with an absolutely CHARMING style…
… until I discovered Shelly’s grudge.
Prior to moving stuff into my studio (I’ve affectionately named Babu), I held a “disinfectant day” to Lysol all furniture permanently there via the landlord.
I mumbled as I tried to pull out the bottom drawer of a gray, vintage-deco dresser but it wouldn’t budge. Cartoon hilarity ensued as the drawer suddenly dislodged and I flew back… and a flurry of little papers rained down. Pink, monogrammed stationery waited inside the gaping hole where the drawer used to be and filled with clean, feminine handwriting.
“Dear James…” began one letter. I can’t snoop… but no harm no foul… but I shouldn’t… but I should! So I arranged each letter in chronological order and began to read.
Who still wrote physical letters in 2010? (the year listed)… wow… “Shelly” (Michelle) sounds wayyy too obsessed with “James”… Wait… didn’t they just meet in December? How is she now saying she’s glad to accept being his wife? … and what is this fight she’s apologizing about?
And finally… the last letter. The only one not dated and not on pink stationery. The only one that looks hastily written and scribbled on an empty envelope.
“… if I should die before I wake…” “take what you need…” “Sorry, I had to do it…”
Where does this letter fall chronologically? I want to scream! From quick marriage proposal to bad breakup? Or was this a snag midway in the relationship? And whoaaaa… why does all this feel so morbid?
In showing the letters off, reactions mixed between “Holy cow she killed the dude.” To “Holy cow I think she killed herself.” And pitying looks were quietly thrown at me that my charming Babu was probably a haunted.
Shelly’s grudge.
As I struggle to sleep I’ll try to ignore the rattling that shakes my silverware once an hour or the footsteps that sound like they’re near my bed. And I won’t look at the tangle of pink stationery: evidence. You never know if James may need it.
