by Marcelle Neumann
Dear Diary Day 1:
This is my first time writing my thoughts down in a locked book full of blank white pages. As if that would stop someone from looking at my secrets. If there is a desire, a way can be found. I bought you two weeks ago after the incident or accident. Perhaps I shall refer to it as the event. No, it really wasn’t that grandiose. You see, it is also my first time killing someone. More on that later. I thought I was different from the rest of my friends and siblings. I did not really care if I ever found “the one.” I mean, is that even real? I finally got tired of hearing the comments and questions. When are you going to settle down? Don’t you want to be happy? As if that depended on another human. I got tired of being set up or being told I found the perfect guy for you. Now I know what you might be thinking. That I killed the last guy I was set up with just to prove a point to my friends. No, I killed my mailman. I’m sorry. I know how that sounds. Hey, talk later. It’s dinner time.
Dear Diary Day 4:
I apologize for missing a couple of days. There are times when you just do not want to interact with anyone. No talking, no nothing. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. I am sure you are wondering what happened. I chose you to tell my story to because you will not, cannot, talk back. I don’t think I could be this liberal with my word choices if I had to tell this to the police. They would be asking questions I had no answers to, and certainly, I would not be allowed to take days to reveal what I had done. You know I hate that word. Murder. It suggests premeditation. And if it had not been for someone else’s actions, he probably would still be alive. Let me take you back to the day when it all started, when I met my cousin’s neighbor’s yoga instructor’s uncle’s dog walker. I was told he was in the export business, which later turned out to be buying junk online and reselling it. Oh, yes, he is a good-looking guy; the most handsome, indeed, were the exact words. He even takes care of his sick mother and is taking accounting classes at the local community center. A fun guy to be around. Oh, my dear Diary, thinking back on it now is making me sick. I will be right back.
Dear Diary Day 6:
Yes, I know I did not come back as I promised. I really did throw up, though. But I know that it was due to the anxiety of all this. Too much information? What do you care? You are just a book. Okay, so back to this creep I met on a warm, clear night a month ago. The plan was for us to have a picnic in the park. He had arrived before me. I wanted to turn around and run, but unfortunately, he spotted me. I noticed he had two of his regulars with him. Dogs, that is. He waved me over, and I took my time walking toward him, which allowed me time to come up with some excuse to tell him that I had to leave. He looked nothing like the man described to me. Not a lick of handsomeness on his face. Is that a word, “handsomeness”? Anyhow, the dogs barked wildly as I approached. When he shouted at them to shut the “F” up, it sent a jolt through my body. As I approached, he stared, his wide eyes sweeping me from head to toe. Finally, he exclaimed that he was in love. Good Lord, I wanted to hurl. Hey, Diary, my show is on. I will pick up the story tomorrow.
Dear Diary Day 7:
Sorry, I can’t write to you today. Catch you tomorrow.
Dear Diary Day 8:
As promised, I will continue the story. Sorry about yesterday, but I received a phone call from the detective who came to talk to me the day they found the mailman dead a block from my house. He had been delivering the mail for over forty years. I am supposed to come down to the police station at my earliest convenience to give a formal statement. I was just too upset to talk about poor Mr. Harmon. At least that is what I told the detective. I guess the whole block is being questioned.
So, yeah, I sat down, and the dog walker, whose name I honestly cannot remember, proceeded to tell me his life story. He was a fast talker, and at the end of every sentence or two, he would add the words “and such and things.” He told me he was a high school dropout, still living at home with his mother, who, by the way, was not sick. He had shoulder-length, unkempt, dirty blond hair; according to him, it was perfect for his desire to be a rock star. And such and things. You may not be able to see it, but I am smiling. I chuckled when he told me he wanted to be a famous rock star. That was the first and only time his expression turned sour. When I asked how the accounting classes were going, his obnoxious smile returned, and he laughed with his whole body, which caused the dogs to bark. After shouting at them, he said he had no idea what I was talking about. He was not good with numbers, so there would be no way he would attend such a class. More tomorrow.
Dear Diary Day 9:
Ok, so I was curious to know what he had been told about me. Dear Diary, let me tell you that when he slid closer to me on the picnic table bench, and I mean inches from me, his leg was touching mine. As I recall, I started to shake. He looked me straight in the eye and said without blinking that I was beautiful, graceful, and a great listener. Okay, so that is true. Hold on. Laughing out loud here. Coming from him, it was disturbing.
Anyway, we were supposed to bring our own sandwiches and drinks. I was grateful for that. I had no intention of sharing his picnic fare, which consisted of tuna fish past its expiration date on dry, crusty bread, a small baggie of what appeared to be broken pieces of potato chips, and a bottle of water. I had left my food in my car and used that as my excuse to get as far away from him as quickly as possible. I hope you are still with me, Diary. I am getting to the part where I killed my mailman. This journaling stuff is quite liberating.
Dear Diary Day 10:
Sorry I fell asleep yesterday writing to you. I am not that busy these days. It’s just that I have a lot on my mind, as you can tell. Now, I know I have never given the guy my phone number. But as soon as I returned home, he called. That was the first of a succession of relentless calls and texts confessing his love for me. I never answered or replied to any of them. I finally blocked his number. It was getting out of hand. When I saw him walking by my house, holding onto six different dog leashes with a variety of mutts in front of him, I freaked out. That happened daily. He would occasionally stop and just stare at my front door. I looked out the upstairs window, hoping he would not see me. Then the flowers arrived, along with the notes on the windshield of my car. When Mr. Harmon started to deliver those cards, I had had enough. Not you, too. Not dear, sweet old Mr. Harmon. It was as if my mailman had become an extension of this creep. Sort of a surrogate when he could not come around. Hey Diary, I need to be careful what I write. So, give me a day to think this through.
Dear Diary, Day 11:
I think this is going to be my final entry. Too bad. You have a lot more blank pages in you. Ok, so I hand back all the letters and cards to Mr. Harmon and ask him to return them to the sender. Dear Diary, the smile on his face was identical to that of the guy I met in the park. His wide eyes looked me over from head to toe. He said I should have just given his nephew a chance. After all, he really is a nice guy. I was unsure if the stone I picked up would be heavy enough to do the trick, but apparently, it was. Mr. Harmon will no longer be delivering my mail. And such and things.
Raised in northwestern Pennsylvania, I cared for a disabled veteran until his passing. I now write and foster cats—like potato chips, you can never have just one. As a member of Pennwriters, Inc. and a local writers’ group, I have published work in several online literary magazines. I am seeking publication for my young-adult paranormal murder mystery and new-adult novella while continuing to write, publish, and add another “potato chip.”
Featured image Jan Kahánek on Unsplash
