Delivered

I had not yet developed the strength to limit my own imagination. My mother despised that; she used to catch me daydreaming every once in a while and snap her fingers right in my face to get my attention. I never understood the harm in letting my brain wander and picture an idyllic house; a big kitchen, enough space in the living room for a bookshelf, maybe even two bedrooms. In fact, I’d seen such a house on my delivery route a couple months ago. This small house with an off-white exterior and an imposing wooden front door. It had “For Sale” signs on the walls surrounding it which was new to me. None of the houses in the neighborhoods I delivered in ever went on sale. They never looked like someone lived in them; you’d rarely see people on the lawn or through the window, and even when you did, it was rarely a family. The curtains were constantly drawn across every house in the neighborhood, so when you went through it, it feels like you’re going through a sanctuary or a restricted government facility. I felt like a wayward raindrop making its way down the walls of a top secret lab.

Despite my overall lack of enthusiasm for my job, I knew I had to keep going. My mother couldn’t afford to take on any more hours, and the numbers on the bills shamelessly crept up every single month. When I told her I’d gotten a job delivering, she didn’t say anything. She turned around, and nodded. We never spoke about our work. It was like the air in the room, it was necessary for us to live, but neither of us ever acknowledged it. That had become our routine. Whenever I came home after my final delivery, or saw her exiting one of the houses she cleaned at, we nodded. We were on duty. We didn’t have to speak about work; the brief eye contact, the weight gradually settling in on our faces as the weeks imperceptibly melted into months, a nod was enough. It was all we needed. A nod meant “we’ll be okay”.

One Thursday morning, I grabbed my empty backpack, and peeked into the living room to see my mother. She was wiping down the bruised legs of our lone table. We nodded.

I rode my bike to the warehouse in which I picked up my packages. I saw my manager parking his car when I got there. I got off my bike, and parked it next to his car. The clouds above were threatening to start a downpour.

“Good morning!” I said, catching up to him as we walked into the delivery center.

“Good morning,” he replied, looking at his stained fingers.

“I think it’s just about ready to rain,” I said looking up at the sky. We never got days off because of the rain, but we did occasionally get to start a bit later, waiting for the rain to stop. And that particular morning, I was in no mood to go on my rounds.

Probably seeing right through me, he said in a low voice, “We’re on schedule.”

As we swung open the doors, I felt the cold chill dissolve into the warm humid air inside the building. It was a cramped space with only 3 real rooms: one for storing, one for packing, and one for assignment. There weren’t any air conditioners or fans in any of the rooms, so they were always warm, the heat generated by the people inside sorting packages, moving from room to room, and handing off heavy backpacks to couriers like me. I hung my jacket up on the hooks behind the door. I made my way into the assignment room, to see the packages I had to deliver. There was only one man, a little older than me, hunched over, examining the hundreds of identical boxes on the floor, cross referencing them for receipts. I realized after only a couple of weeks of working here that we weren’t on a first name basis with anyone. I was more familiar with the kinds of clothes they wore. What they wore at work were often the same they wore in any other context, so occasionally, I’d spot a pair of tired, worn out work boots, and know to divert my eyes. We were colleagues only. There wasn’t much time or general interest for banter as we did our duties. We moved without questions or concerns, only to serve our purpose.

“It’s going to rain heavy today,” I said, trying to spot my boxes.

“We’re on schedule”, he replied, instantly. “These are yours.” He pushed a stack of eight or so boxes towards me. I picked up an empty delivery bag, and placed each of the boxes into the bag with the utmost care. As I was exiting the assignment room, he turned around to look at me briefly. I gave him a single nod.

The feeling of holding these boxes and moving them in my hand still didn’t feel normal. Every single box was exactly the same. Same in shape, size, weight, and I’m assuming contents. We weren’t allowed to look inside the packages. There were explicit instructions posted on every wall of the center. The boxes were small, probably the size of a Rubik’s cube, but whatever was inside confounded my senses. If you turned the box over in your hand, the weight of the box would slowly roll over to the other side, like it was filled with thick syrup. But when you held it upright, it felt almost weightless. Riding straight with a bag full of these was easy, but when you took a turn, it felt like something was dragging you backwards.

The first delivery of the day was always the most difficult. No matter how much I prepared myself on the way over, that first handover always felt like I was walking into uncharted territory. This was despite the fact that I’d deliver in the same locale, even the same houses, repeatedly. I never felt the rhythm of the march take control. When I rode my bike, I felt the inexplicable prickles go up my spine when I first caught a glimpse of the pristine lawns. It was the starting pistol for the day. I was on duty now.

That day, my first drop was to a house I hadn’t been to in a while. Most deliveries are regular, once or even twice a week. It’s not very often that a particular house skips a week, and it’s even less common that someone stops ordering entirely. The address on my route was a flat on the eighth floor of a large apartment complex. I could see it from the windows of my house, but I’d often lose it amongst the horizons on a bright day. The outside of the structure was painted in lacquered gold. The paint was now peeling and rotting away, exposing a moldy green color underneath. The complex was initially pitched as subsidized housing, but once the project ran out of funding, the construction was taken over by some multinational company, and everybody hoping to live there was priced out in an instant.

I parked my bike in the delivery parking lot. It was kept separate from the rest of the parked vehicles. We were never allowed to go there, I’d only ever catch the glint of the sun bouncing off the paints of the cars. I walked into the lobby, where the doorman shot me a familiar glance. They were instructed to verify our ID, and check the names on our packages, but we never followed that formality. As soon as I entered, I felt the curtains drop. I was a different person now. I was happy to greet you, and I might even ask you how your day was. It was the only way I could deal with what would transpire.

I was waiting for the elevator to descend from the sixteenth floor, when I heard footsteps come up behind me. A man, clearly worse for wear, positioned himself next to me. He put his hand out to call the elevator, despite seeing that the button was already pressed. His finger was trembling and the hair on his hands stood upright. I took a half step back. Instinctually, I looked up to see his face. His eyes were restless, scanning every inch of the space around him, but not towards me. The paleness of his skin revealed thin veins pulsing rhythmically. He pressed the button again, just as the elevator arrived.

When the doors opened, he bolted in. I heard the soles of his feet make weighty contact with the metal floors. I looked at the space beside him, and for a second, I just stared. I could take the next lift, I could even climb the stairs: only eight floors. My shoulders must’ve dipped slightly as I hesitated to enter the lift, because I felt that movement in my hands again: the contents of the box tilting ever so slightly, but in a manner that no verb can adequately explain. Did it roll? Melt? Tip over? Swim like syrup, or shatter like glass? Whatever it was, it awakened my sense of duty. I steadied my hands and stepped inside the elevator, standing directly under the blinding white light. None of the buttons were pressed. When I leaned over to press eight, I felt the man sigh, and slide his feet back against the wall. I stood back, expecting him to select his floor, but instead he just stood sequestered in the corner. The lift rose suddenly, and with considerable pain. It groaned, the seemingly tired cables wailing in a freakishly high pitch. It knocked me off balance, I took a step back, hitting my head against the opposite corner. He didn’t turn. His hands still shivering, he held them together in front of him. His lips parted to reveal teeth that were broken; chipped into jagged edges, each one in a different slight, but leading to a severe point.

We reached the eighth floor. He bolted out with his hands firmly planted in his pockets. My body followed his, a fishing line leading a fluke through the water. Eventually, I saw a door in front of me, marginally cracked open. I took a step forward, and as my heel hit the tile again, half a face reared itself through the opening in the door. The same panicked eye from the elevator met mine, then, with a powerful bang, the door slammed shut.

I took a deep breath. This was just a weird moment. I’ve got no reason to feel this way, right? To feel the numbness in my chest, or for my face to sweat like it is.

“Okay, just focus, just reset.” I said to myself. I looked down at the box in my hands. The address read 801. I looked up: the golden fixture of 801 stared back at me.

I knocked on the door cautiously, and before I took my knuckle off the door, the same trembling face reared itself through the door, though now the eyes were fixed. Focused, like an eagle that’s locked onto a prey before bombing down from the sky.

“Package for you.” I said, pulling the friendliest voice I could, given the circumstance.

With his left hand planted firmly behind his back, his face slowly tilted up to look at me. He reached out with his right hand, and for a brief second that we held the box together, I felt his hands trembling. A minor tremor that perpetrated into the contents of this box.

As soon as he collected the box out of my hands, I turned and walked briskly. I didn’t hear the door shut behind, but it didn’t matter. I walked until I was sure I was out of sight.

Then the sounds came. I was not twenty feet from the door, when the ecstatic hollering lit up the hallway. It was from that house. Hooting, shouting, several voices, maybe three? All male? It was a symphony of primal satisfaction. I could make out some words, but none from any language I recognized. When I turned around, the shadows pouring out from the gap under the door shifted in almost rhythmic syncopation, drawing me nearer to them.

My left heel hit the floor at an angle too narrow, causing me to stumble. I caught myself, shifting the boxes in my bag with me.

“Shit!” I muttered.

The noises stopped. The shadows ceased to move, in fact there was no light coming underneath that door anymore. The pins in the door knob turned.

And that was it for me. I sprinted back to the elevator door, fighting the swaying of my backpack, through the dense fog of anxiety clouding my brain. I didn’t want to turn back. The elevator was still on the floor, and when it opened, I jammed my fist against the ground floor button and the door close buttons repeatedly, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder.

The doors slowly drew together, shutting me off from this wretched floor. When the elevator was almost shut, the same apartment door flew open. I turned around. I was met with a piercing glare from the same face straining to get a look at me. But this time, there was no tremble, there was no visible panic. Just two calm eyes accentuating an unmistakable grin; his lips parting to reveal darkly discolored teeth. Were they this color before? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t care to remember. The doors sealed, and the winch let out another haunting mechanical groan as I sank onto the floor.

The world moved around me in a drunken blur after that. I picked myself up off the floor and walked with paranoid conviction back out to the parking lot. The skies were well beyond overcast now; greys and blacks woven in sinister patchwork above me. Errant drops had made their way on the handlebars of my bike. We’re on schedule.

I checked off this address from my itinerary and set my GPS to the next one. The rain gradually picked up in severity. Pushing through lashing rain, I settled myself. I forced out of my head the image of those haunting eyes boring into my skull. Everything was normal. I had to be a true professional. My mother was. The other couriers were. I was too. Cars flew by in the opposite direction, spraying grime and rainwater on every inch of me. My backpack kept getting heavier, the contents inside seemingly fluctuating in mass. I was swaying off balance as cars screamed past, nearly clipping my right leg. The GPS showed 4 minutes to cover three and a half kilometers. I accelerated as forcefully as my wrist would allow. The rain pooled in front of my eyes, enveloping the roads in a soft blur. I tried my best to blink away the water. With every blink came new colors, new cars, new houses. Then, with a single blink, the world lost its balance all at once, and I ended up with my nose submerged in a pool of asphalt and water.

I tried to lift myself off the ground, but my head throbbed as it left the water. Cars just kept honking and speeding past. I felt fine, physically anyway. My bike was sideways, no dents or gashes with the GPS still blinking on screen. I reached my arm behind me to feel my backpack, and my fingers traced an opening at the bottom. My eyes widened. I turned around to look at the road, but there wasn’t anything in my immediate vicinity. But just to my right, through the piercing haze of rain I could see one of the boxes disintegrating as cars drove over it. Slowly, a dark sludge oozed out onto the road. It was completely black; black like I haven’t seen before. It moved like it was alive; dissolving and solidifying simultaneously as it navigated the currents of rainwater with inexplicable pace. Cars kept driving over it, splashing it on my face, I could feel it gouge into my skin, like an acid poured over metal. My mind kept falling into that image. I couldn’t keep it out of my thoughts. That glare, those stained teeth. The sludge had expanded all around me. It was everywhere. It was everything. I took a look at my bike and GPS on the road. It was now almost completely submerged.

I don’t recall consciously making the decision to run, but that is what I found myself doing. Unencumbered now, across lawns and sidewalks, just waiting for the color of water to change. My head was rattling inside my skull. Nothing seemed clear. I vaguely recognized the neighborhood I was sprinting across through my clouded vision, but everything seemed infected with that sludge now. All was familiar but nothing was safe. I sprinted until my lungs gave out. I stopped with my hands resting on my knees and my eyes clamped shut. Eventually, I stood back up and opened my eyes tenuously. I was stood before the house. The front door with incredibly ornate woodwork blazened with a white ‘For Sale’ sign. This was the house I longed for. The streams of jet-black water made their way past the driveway onto that door. The waves of that ghastly sludge splashed against the for sale sign. The paint on the sign was melting. Reds and blues and whites streamed down, turning pitch black when it came in contact with the water.

I didn’t know what was real. I couldn’t trust my eyes. The shattering pain in my head amplified with every passing second, and I knew nothing else but to keep running. The black water swallowed my footsteps, stripping away any trace that I had ever been there. I knew no home, no route, and no landmark; only the pitch black tide slowly rising around me.