Page 1 of Surprise Bratva Daddy
1
Monroe
Igot a package today. It’s wrapped in unassuming brown paper, but it’s anything but normal. Despite being seven by seven by seven inches, it barely weighs anything. When I shake it, there’s no noise but the crinkle of the paper.
I can think of no one who would mail me an empty package as a prank. I have no friends, no family, and currently, no employer.
I’m a loner. A woman without a purpose or mission, getting by on an inheritance that’s enough to retire on, but not enough to do anything particularly enjoyable with all my spare time.
I don’t even date because there aren’t any single men my age in this neighborhood. It’s quiet here. Boring for some people, but I enjoy the silence. I needed stillness after losing my parents to a drunk driver.
Five years later, and the package currently sitting on my table is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me. I don’t even know who it’s from because there’s no label on it. No stamps, either, which is even more unusual.
No sender, and no receiver. Not even an address. It’s just blank.
Maybe someone dropped it off themselves, but I didn’t hear them. The rusty red mailbox in front of my house squeaks when anyone opens it. I would’ve heard it unless it was late at night.
But I checked the mail anyway this morning, and I found this package. I check every day, even on Sundays, because occasionally I’ll forget that I ordered something online and be surprised by it in the mailbox. It’s the most excitement I get these days.
The package is still on the table after I’ve had my first cup of coffee. It remains there after the second one, and even once all the dishes are washed and put away, it’s still there.
Maybe it was meant for me. Nobody has come looking for it yet.
I push my fingers through my hair, feeling the slight dampness on my scalp from rigorous dishwashing and too much coffee. I prefer to do things by hand. I used to have a dishwasher, but it broke and I didn’t feel like paying to have it fixed or replaced.
I have all the time in the world now, and not a damn thing to do with it.
Quite suddenly, however, I feel pressed to act. Anticipation has been building inside me, bubbling up like overcooked rice until this very moment when I break and decide to tear the brown paper off the box to see what’s inside.
I grab it from the dining room table, cradling it like a baby as I walk into the living room and sit down on the old couch that’s about as old as my grandmother was. It has a horrendous paisley print that’s grown on me over the years. I’d be embarrassed for anyone to see it, but nobody ever comes over.
The box feels like nothing on my lap, barely even there. I wonder if it really is empty.
My fingers tremble slightly as I carefully peel away the brown paper, revealing a plain white box underneath. There are no markings or logos, just a simple, pristine box. I run my thumb along the edge, hesitating for a moment before finally lifting the lid.
Inside, nestled within a small bed of white tissue paper, is a single flash drive. Its sleek, metallic surface catches the light from the lamp beside me. The way the light flashes against it makes it seem like it’s winking at me.
I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. There are no labels or identifying marks on it. Nothing to indicate what it contains or who sent it. It’s blank just like the package.
Curiosity and a touch of apprehension swirl inside of me. For all I know, this could contain something illegal, and by opening it, I’ve claimed ownership of whatever is on the drive. I should take it to the police instead.
But that would require admitting to opening someone else’s mail, and that’s also against the law. Without knowing what’s on it, there’s no way for me to make a good decision.
Throwing it away would be equally risky, as the owner could come looking for it. It could be important.
I let out a long sigh, turning the flash drive over in my hand until the metal becomes warm. It’s not going to do me any good to sit here and ponder what could be on it forever. Eventually, I’ll have to check and see, assuming this isn’t a trick to get me to install a virus on my computer.
I’ve been meaning to replace that old thing, anyway.
I stand and walk over to my small desk in the corner of the living room, where my laptop sits. It's an older model, but it gets the job done.
I sit down, plug in the flash drive, and wait for the screen to come to life. I try not to think too much about what’s on it, only that I need to check it to determine who it belongs to. There should be a name somewhere in the metadata. It’s usually there unless it’s deliberately deleted.
My laptop takes a frustratingly long time to boot up. I keep looking over at the window, paranoid that some dark figure is going to be lurking behind the washed-out flamingo pink curtains while the rhythmic sound of the hard drive fills the quiet room.
Finally, the screen brightens and I’m prompted to log in. I’m not even sure why I bother with a password when I live alone. Nothing ever happens here.
No crime. No break-ins. No visitors. Nothing.
