Signed, Sealed...Stolen

[Image source: AI-generated with DALL·E]

They say time heals all wounds but some scars refuse to fade- especially the ones shaped like a best friend. I used to think our friendship was unbreakable until it unraveled entirely, thread by thread. What followed was no explosion, no confrontation, there were no flames- just ashes of what once was.

Her number is deleted from my cell for months now but let's be honest- I had it memorized years ago. Despite our friendship or whatever of it that's left, she's the first person I dial when I receive the final letter. It is tucked between grocery bills and flyers. I would've almost missed it if I hadn't grown to fear letters lately.

When she picks up I let out the words I have been holding in far too long.
"I need help"
I barely recognize my own voice. Scared, helpless. Her reply is prompt- almost too quick.
"What's wrong?"

Everything, says a voice in my head. Everything.

At first, I mistook the final letter for spam. It was unlike any of the ones that came before it. No misleading floral envelopes, no angrily sprawled handwritten threats- just a crisp white professional notice with my name in big, bold letters alongside an address that wasn't mine. 

This is to inform you that your mailing address has been changed as requested.

I read it twice- then thrice. I could feel my vision grow hazy. I should have called customer care or taken some other immediate action but as the last few months caught up with me at once- I just sat there staring blankly at the letter. A letter according to which, I was now living two states away. 

~~~

The first threat came disguised as a save-the-date floral envelope. It continues to sit in the leftmost corner of my wardrobe, along with each of ones that followed. Four lines aren't a lot to read, unless they're written as an address, a time and an amount. Then, they're everything.

My first instinct was to call the cops. However, the possibility was cruelly ruled out by an anonymous text. It was a picture. A silver tube pointing in the direction of a door- which I recognised to be my apartment door, and a blurred silhouette of me holding the floral envelope. It took me painfully long to breathe after I registered the silver tube to resemble a gun. There was no caption to the picture. None was needed.

The second envelope came after a month of sleepless, paranoid nights. 
I still remember how my body froze in the shower when I heard my apartment door creek open. When I came out, curtain rod held firmly in my trembling grip, I found the wardrobes and drawers mercilessly emptied- their contents spilling all over the place. Old photo albums, expensive glassware, underwear, socks- my entire life thrown violently onto the floor. But that isn't what made my blood run cold- not quite. What petrified me was knowing that somewhere in the apartment was an innocent appearing floral envelope. And there it was- the second envelope sitting comfortably on my dining table. 

Every month since, I narrowly arranged for funds and kept sliding thick envelopes down a rusted iron gate. The air felt colder each time I bent over to feel the gap beneath the door. The envelope would be snatched in a swift motion from the other side, and I wouldn't dare so much as make a sound or meet their eyes. I could only pray the metal gate stayed closed, that the sound of pulling a trigger was in my head, and that I would make it to my car safe. Thereafter, I would make a run for my car, driving as rash as I otherwise never would.
Only then would I let myself breathe.

~~~

Forty nine minutes and endless pacing later, the doorbell rang. It was her- carrying her usual warm smile and two hazelnut pastries. Just like old times. We sat on the couch cross-legged as I showed her the letters, the anonymous messages and the broken mess my home was left in.
When I could no longer hold back my tears, she knelt beside me and held me. The same way she had several times before. When she suggested I file for a restraining order, I couldn't bring myself to tell her how I already tried. Or how the gun picture was a constant looming dagger on my neck. 

Her eyes were caught between concern and anger as she asked me of my whereabouts. I assured her that I didn't leave my apartment unless I absolutely needed to. But even as I said it, I knew the blackmails had found their way to me in ways beyond where I lived- they haunted me when I opened my laptop, my phone. They were messing with my mind in twisted ways.
I found myself checking the mirror ever so often- just to ensure I truly was alone in my room.

"Awful" she said adding, "especially the financial glitches". Which I hadn't even realised I had told her about. Her presence was offloading a lot of the past months from my chest and it was quickly becoming hard to keep up. Certain inconsistencies were beginning to surface in my finances. Verification codes I never requested, wrong password attempts, a transaction I didn't recall making. They were each a week apart yet my mind had been too unfocussed to piece the tell-tell signs lying in my junk folder as those of impending danger.

I almost missed them altogether- until my landlord called to inform that my rent had bounced. 
I stared at my phone screen- expecting my usual balance in the bank app. Nothing. Zero balance.

I called the bank immediately, but the security questions failed. My mother’s maiden name. My first pet. The street I grew up on.
Wrong.
I tried again.
Wrong.
When the assistant asked if I wanted to verify through my backup phone number, I barely heard the digits she read. Because they weren’t mine.

It was only yesterday that I found out all my crucial documents- passport, ID proof, financial documents- were missing. Naive of me to assume my blackmailer broke into my house just to cause a mess.

I'm lost deep into the swirl of recent events when I hear a soft chuckle from beside me. She's scrolling reels- too calm, too relaxed. For a split second I assume she'll tilt the phone so I could see it- a weak attempt at lightening my mood. But that never comes. She yawns lazily, then after catching my stare she says, "Sorry, this just isn't as much fun anymore."

My utter confusion is met with her shoving the front of her passport, ID, bank account in my face- each following the same pattern. 
My name, her face.

She isn't here to help, she's here to watch me fall apart. Because she’s the one who sent the letter.

She’s the one who changed my mailing address, siphoned my funds, and emptied my accounts while I was too busy being terrified of floral envelopes to notice.
She’s the one who sent the blurry photo- just close enough to my door to be real, just far enough to keep me guessing.

The late-night break-ins. The missing documents. The staged chaos.
All of it carefully orchestrated to make me feel unsafe.
To make me stop thinking clearly. To make me turn to her.

Because who better to betray you than the person you trust the most?

I open my mouth to speak, but she’s faster. She gently takes my phone from the table, so casually it doesn’t register as a threat. So naturally as though she would open the camera app and we would pose like we have so many times before.
Then she places it face down on the counter, out of reach.
Her eyes meet mine.
And that’s when I see it.

Not guilt. Not remorse. Just cold, unapologetic satisfaction.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly, her voice so sweet with false concern it's nauseating.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out my passport.
My ID.
The copies of my signatures.

“I’ve already got everything I need.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“But I’ll stay with you tonight, if that makes you feel safer.”

And then she smiles.
Sweet. Familiar. Cruel.
Like she knows I won’t run.
Like she knows I won’t fight back.
Like she knows I’ve already lost.

Because I have.

The letters were never a warning. They were a game, and she had been playing long before I even knew I was a piece.