Deadly letter

She sat quietly in her room. So quietly that nothing but the rustling of the trees filled the walls of her mind. Though her soul was lost in contemplation of the letter she had sent him two months earlier… She loved him so much. She missed him so much, and now anger and hatred filled her body, touching every living cell. Her entire being ached in chaotic spasms of unwanted sobbing.

She gently placed her hand on the telephone receiver. He would call… he would call immediately and explain this matter.

Shivering from the cold that suddenly enveloped her skin, she dialed the number. Her hand trembled with excitement… fear, or perhaps from the cold that, out of nowhere and out of nowhere, had wrapped its tentacles around her, like a spider snaring its prey in a web spun by its own legs.

She heard his voice. A gentle, masculine… She felt a wave of warmth. It was like a soothing balm for her body, longing for warmth.

"Hello," she whispered in a barely audible whisper.

"Oh, hello. It's nice to hear from you. You haven't heard from me in so long," he said, half regretfully, half resentfully. She took this as a good sign. "

Why didn't you answer my letter? It was so important. I wanted to explain everything to you, tell you everything… it cost me so much

—what letter?

—what letter?

—I didn't receive any letters."

She hung up the phone. Quietly, without a second thought, calmly. Even though so many emotions were raging inside. Her heart pounded with a strange anger.

She stood up, not feeling her legs telling her to lift her body. She took a few steps toward the door, unaware she was doing so. Something told her to go. Just go, not stop.

He was sitting in his room. A strong, gusty wind was blowing outside. He was so tired after a long day of hard work. Everything hurt. His spine, no longer so young, was rebelling against the burden the postman had to carry from door to door every day. Sometimes letters simply didn't arrive. They disappeared without a trace. He didn't want that to happen. He rebelled… after all, letters were someone else's words… sometimes less important, sometimes carrying a true message, but always someone's thoughts.

He heard a knock on the door. Chaotic, empty… He didn't get out of bed. His spine ached with every movement. He preferred not to know who it was. His children were in the next room. He remembered that the little ones were probably long asleep, and with difficulty, groaning in pain, he got out of bed.

"Who's there?" he asked in a voice that conveyed deep suffering.

Silence. Nothing answered his question. He pressed his ear to the door. All he heard was heavy breathing on the other side. It was like a marathon runner gasping for air after a long run. He stepped away from the door in fear. He pushed Judas aside and peered out through the small screen.

A girl stood behind the door. A young girl… wet from head to toe, soaked and frozen, shivering, perhaps from fear or anger. Her head was bowed. Her long, matted hair hung loose from the base of her skull, delicately plastered to the skin of her face. He couldn't see her eyes, her face, only the girl suffering from agony.

He quietly opened the door.

She saw him… standing before her in his uniform, looking at her kindly. That stupid, blind smile. She had so much strength, so much energy. She looked at him… he held her letter… her letter, the letter she had written to him… that had cost her so much work, that meant so much to her, that had explained so much.

She couldn't resist. She grabbed the knife in her pocket. A long, sharp knife. The kind her mother used to cut a loaf of bread. She swung and struck… There was no resistance. The postman, dodging her blow… she swung again… and this time she felt no obstacle, but the knife entered his arm… it slid gently, passing the bone of his forearm. "The knife penetrates him like butter," she thought

. She pulled the knife out. Blood began to ooze from the postman's arm. He was shouting, saying something… maybe even begging… She couldn't hear, couldn't hear anything. There was no fear, only anger, hatred.

He held the wound in his arm with one hand, his fingers clenched tightly, yet the blood gently seeped out and soaked through his uniform, dripping gently onto the floor.

The next blow was more accurate. She struck him in the neck… He looked at her with pleading eyes… blood flowed down his neck, gently moving towards his neckline. The last blow… the fatal one… straight to the heart. He was dying… dying before her eyes… his gaze seemed to scream.

She looked at him with satisfaction. Silent satisfaction. She knew he would die soon, die before her eyes because of her. She ran the blade across his throat… severed one of his hands, gently scraping the bone with the knife… An unpleasant sound… like something scratching gently against a chalkboard. His children stood in the doorway.

Seeing them only a moment later, she ordered them to look at it. The postman's severed hand remained in one of hers… She watched it with joy. Blood flowed from the wrist, the bone protruding slightly… She examined the phenomenon…

"So this is what bones look like," she said and laughed bitterly.

She threw the postman's hand at one of his daughters…

Then she gently approached the younger girl and placed the blade against her face. She ran it across her cheek. She pressed it harder. Blood sprayed…

Carnage… pure carnage. The sun rose. The wind died. Three bodies lay in the hallway of the second-floor apartment. Three pairs of hands, scattered chaotically around the apartment, seemed to be searching for a way out… If it weren't for their size, no one would have guessed that two of them belonged to a man. The faces of all three were hidden under a thick crust of dried blood.

A girl lay in a puddle of rain in front of the house. A young, pretty girl. Her body convulsed chaotically, torn by the spasms of helplessness that washed over her time and time again…

The world was coming to life… The whole world in its ignorance and helplessness in the face of last night's crime…