At dawn, on the morning of Sunday, September 13, 2009, there was a package waiting just outside the front door of the house in the WestEnd shared by Mr. & Mrs. al-Amat.
The package itself was wrapped in brown paper and tied together by hemp string. Dimensionally, the package was approximately six inches high, fifteen inches long, and twelve inches wide. It was rather a large package, and incredibly heavy. Tucked under the string which bound the wrapping together was a plain white envelope of standard commercial side. Within the envelope was a letter.
Neither on the envelope, nor on the package itself, was there printed a mailing address. Nor was there a return address. There was not even attached any proper postage. The envelope itself, however, had one word written on it that consisted of three letters, written in a horrifically sloppy scrawl, and read the name FIO.
The letter contained within the envelope was written in the same horrifically sloppy scrawl and read the following:
fi-
these are yours. I shouldn't have them. I never should've had them, so
I'm giving them back to you. it's your choice what to do with them. Ali's
right about that. I'm not sure what to do with them myself they only
drive me crazy so I'm giving them back to you.
do with them what you think is right. read them if you like. remember
them if you've forgotten them. burn them for all I care- I never wanted
to know you this well. not as well as Ali wants to know you.
I'm done with them. I'm getting rid of them. I just didn't think it was
right to throw them all away. maybe you can use them better than I
can. they belong to you anyway. I'm giving them back before I stop
being me.
it's time to be myself again.
- sal
Within the package was a book, a rather immense book. The proportions of the book were sized precisely that of the brown wrapping paper it was contained within. The book was bound in brown leather. It had nothing printed on its cover, nor on its spine. The book likely contained a thousand or more pages, all filled with that same nearly illegible handwriting.
There was no forward, no afterward, no prologue, no introduction, not even an epilogue nor appendix. None of the pages were numbered, but it read from left to right. The person who had written this book clearly had picked up English as a second language, had issues with proper punctuation, grammar, capitalization, sentence structure, and not to mention the way a book should properly be written.
A fifth grader could have done a better job.
The package itself was wrapped in brown paper and tied together by hemp string. Dimensionally, the package was approximately six inches high, fifteen inches long, and twelve inches wide. It was rather a large package, and incredibly heavy. Tucked under the string which bound the wrapping together was a plain white envelope of standard commercial side. Within the envelope was a letter.
Neither on the envelope, nor on the package itself, was there printed a mailing address. Nor was there a return address. There was not even attached any proper postage. The envelope itself, however, had one word written on it that consisted of three letters, written in a horrifically sloppy scrawl, and read the name FIO.
The letter contained within the envelope was written in the same horrifically sloppy scrawl and read the following:
fi-
these are yours. I shouldn't have them. I never should've had them, so
I'm giving them back to you. it's your choice what to do with them. Ali's
right about that. I'm not sure what to do with them myself they only
drive me crazy so I'm giving them back to you.
do with them what you think is right. read them if you like. remember
them if you've forgotten them. burn them for all I care- I never wanted
to know you this well. not as well as Ali wants to know you.
I'm done with them. I'm getting rid of them. I just didn't think it was
right to throw them all away. maybe you can use them better than I
can. they belong to you anyway. I'm giving them back before I stop
being me.
it's time to be myself again.
- sal
Within the package was a book, a rather immense book. The proportions of the book were sized precisely that of the brown wrapping paper it was contained within. The book was bound in brown leather. It had nothing printed on its cover, nor on its spine. The book likely contained a thousand or more pages, all filled with that same nearly illegible handwriting.
There was no forward, no afterward, no prologue, no introduction, not even an epilogue nor appendix. None of the pages were numbered, but it read from left to right. The person who had written this book clearly had picked up English as a second language, had issues with proper punctuation, grammar, capitalization, sentence structure, and not to mention the way a book should properly be written.
A fifth grader could have done a better job.