The Piece of Paper

Somebody wants to tell you something

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"The trouble is, you think you have time."

Jack Kornfield, an American author and teacher in the Vipassana movement of Theravāda Buddhism.

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“You are going to die tomorrow.”

This was what the note said. A simple, rectangular piece of white paper with six black letters printed on it.

You are going to die tomorrow.

Michael looked around frantically. The window was closed. He lived on the seventh floor. He rushed through the hallway to the front door of the apartment and tried the handle. Locked. Grabbing a knife from the kitchen plot, he carefully checked all the rooms. There were three of them: the living room where the kitchen niche was, his bedroom, and the bathroom.

All rooms empty, and all windows closed.

Michael went out on the balcony. The freezing winter wind was pushing angrily against the brown awning, producing a weird clapping sound. As if it was congratulating him on his courage.

The balcony was empty.

Michael looked over the railing. There was no Spiderman stuck to the smooth wall underneath.

He went back in and put the knife back on the plot. He returned to his bedroom.

The piece of paper was still on the floor.

Michael tried to think. He had been working on his computer. While working, he’d throw occasional glances at the floor. It would help him concentrate. One minute the note wasn’t there and the next, it was.

It can’t have appeared out of nowhere! Somebody should have put it on the floor! Yet there’s no one in the apartment and there are no signs of breaking in. Unless somebody came in early this morning, while I was jogging in the park, and left it here, and it has been here all along and I saw it just now which means I’m getting extremely absent-minded.

Could he be that absent-minded?

He took the piece of paper and started rolling it between his fingers. Who could have done something like that? Joe from the apartment upstairs? That fucking bastard. He never wanted to pay for any of the necessary repair works on the building and was always accusing him of being a thief for collecting all the fees. He was a big guy with an old-fashioned mustache and grim, brushy eyebrows.

It’s probably him. He must have broken in this morning. Yet I can’t prove it. There are no signs of breaking in. Hmm…how did this nutcrack come in?

Another thought crept into his mind. Much creepier than the previous ones.

There’s no piece of paper at all.

I’m imagining it.

I have schizophrenia.

It was clear he wouldn’t be able to continue his work for today. He walked around the flat, restless. He had the feeling that somebody was going to break through the door any time, smashing the steel to pieces, and shooting a dozen bullets into his body.

Michael decided he wasn’t going to leave his apartment today and tomorrow. If the threat was serious, whoever wanted to get rid of him would do it easier outside. Tomorrow? What did they mean, tomorrow? Twenty-four hours from now? Or simply, tomorrow morning?

He looked at his watch. It was three p.m.

Michael suddenly felt very lonely. His parents were dead. He had no siblings. No friends worth reaching for at a moment like this. He was nearly forty and still had no wife, and no children. Just because he was too shy to ever ask a woman out.

He opened the dating app on his phone. He looked for a proper profile and soon found it. A picture of a thirty-something woman wearing glasses, with a long thin nose, thin lips, and a heart-shaped face. Dark wavy hair. Gentle eyes.

Plain-looking, but good-natured. This was what he wanted.

She was online.

“Do you want to talk?” he wrote. “I desperately need someone to talk to.”

“Me, too’” was the answer. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Everything.”

Her voice was a bit raspy but melodious. A nice voice. They talked until midnight. About work, relationships, and society. History, life and death. Michael fell asleep on the phone, somewhat drugged.

Three p.m. on the next day came and went, and Michael, who was cringing in his bedroom, realized with wonder that he was still alive.

He tentatively opened the computer and picked up his yesterday’s project. He hadn’t worked more than half an hour when, by sheer habit, he looked at the floor.

There was a new piece of paper there.

Michael froze. For five long minutes, he was unable to move. Then he slowly got up and picked up the note.

“You are going to die tomorrow.”

He knew that the note was new because he had crumpled up the old one yesterday and thrown it in the bin. This piece of paper was smooth and shiny.

A new note with the same warning.

He looked at his watch: four p.m.

It was pointless to go around the flat again. He knew he’d find nothing. The explanation was obvious: he was losing his mind. This was supported by the fact that yesterday’s threat had remained only a threat: nobody had killed him. Michael supposed nobody would kill him tomorrow as well.

And yet…

There was still the small possibility of a very clever enemy. An enemy who liked to play with him the cat and mouse game.

Michael felt even lonelier than yesterday. He stopped working and called his new friend. Her name was Martha. He talked with Martha about everything until midnight and he fell into oblivious sleep.

Four p.m. on the next day came and went. He was still alive.

And at five, a new note was waiting for him.

From this point onwards, his life became a scary, and at the same time, a soothingly repetitive affair. Michael waited for the daily notes with horror, but on the other hand, he was impatient to start his usual conversation with Martha. They were becoming good friends. A week and a half later his food supplies were over and he realized he had to leave the flat to visit the supermarket.

He decided to do it just after the new note had arrived. This time, it was at five a.m. If he was to be killed, it would be tomorrow, which meant five a.m. on the next day. He had a whole day at his disposal.

It seemed a lot.

He called Martha and asked her out. She seemed pleased. She had been obviously waiting for him to take the first step. She was romantic like that. The date was perfect: full of warm coffee, pancakes with chocolate, almonds, and whipped cream, warm glances, honest smiles, and a tentative kiss goodbye.

Michael bought enough food for another week and a half, but he already knew he’d go outside in the interval between the receiving of the note and the possible time of the realization of the threat.

A year later, he and Martha got married. They both worked from home and were perfectly happy with that. She, unlike him, had many friends, most of them couples, and Michael was happy to meet them all. His social life bloomed. Meanwhile, he decided never to work on a project he didn’t like, regardless of the money it might bring. The probability that he might not finish them meant he should at least enjoy them.

Another year later, his daughter arrived.

Two years after her, his son.

One evening, Martha caught him grabbing the new note that had appeared on the bedroom floor. They had changed the apartment for a bigger one, in another neighborhood, but the notes kept coming up daily out of nowhere on their bedroom floor. So far, he had always managed to make them disappear before Martha saw them. He knew they were real now because his daughter had seen them a few times. Unless she had schizophrenia, too, the pieces of paper obviously existed.

“What is this?” Martha asked curiously, looking at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

“Oh, nothing!’ he smiled and caressed her hair. “Nothing, my love.”

“It’s certainly something. And you’re being quite secretive about it. Is it a love letter or something? Are you cheating on me, stupid?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”

“A reminder.” Michael said.

“What?”

His smile widened.

“Yes. A simple reminder.”

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Always yours,

Nev