pepper

You crinkle the paper and shove it aside. It gains enough momentum in that brief movement to skid across your wooden desk and onto the floor with a soft pat. Your cat takes this opportunity to experiment with a new toy and pounces on the crumpled ball, the crinkling noises continuing as he rolls around with his new opponent.

Your cat’s audition for Fight Club isn’t enough to pull you out of your deep and troubled thoughts. The note bothers you; you know that much. But what bothers you more is what is expected of you upon receiving it.

Pepper does not write to you often, but when she does, she makes sure to include Polaroid pictures of the various trips she embarks on, or of the newest furry editions to her family – quite wholesome writings, really. But this one was significantly different; it almost does not feel like it is from her. The writing does not adopt her poised penmanship or distinguished diction you know her so well for. It is a panicked scrawl. But the uneven words still project in your head as clear as the water waiting stagnant in the glass on your desk:

He’s thinks I’m writing an actual suicide note. He is making me do this.

The picture that comes with it leaves you that much more unsettled, not because it is someone terrifying, but rather it is someone you know and love. Someone who treated you to ice cream after school, and words of encouragement over math homework.

The Polaroid contains your father. Leaned against the kitchen counter, facing away from the camera, holding a pistol, his finger gently rested on the trigger.

Oh, Pepper. I told you not to go home.