Fiction, Melbourne, Weather, Writing

Parcel

On tenterhooks, I wait for the postie to arrive.

It’s been weeks since I placed the order and I received a delivery notification this morning, stating that my parcel will arrive today.

At various times throughout the day, I realise I’m holding my breath. I relax, let it out in a whoosh and take a number of deep, calming breaths.

While I’m still focussing on centring myself, I hear the buzz of the Australia Post motorbike, like a huge bee is overhead. My heart hits the floor in a sudden understanding that the moment has arrived. No turning back. My feet propel me to the gate to wait.

‘Hello Mr Postman,’ I say as he stops at my letterbox. I’m a little out of breath. ‘Beautiful day.’

He nods with a smile, and says something I can’t hear over his bike. Doesn’t matter anyway. Ordinary conversations have no place in this day.

He rushes off, I fly indoors, ripping the packaging tape apart as I go. Kicking the door shut behind me, I collapse on the carpet and pull the box open.

I sigh with relief.

At the dining table, I assemble the parts.

When I’m dressed and ready, I walk to the bus stop. Careful steps, slow and deliberate, take me from home to the main street. I don’t sit at the stop, nor do I sit when I’m on board. I get off at the local primary school, amble past the volunteers thrusting their pamphlets in my face. I join the queue.

Fidgeting and huffing with impatience, the line crawls towards the front, where there’s a table with five or six more volunteers ready to cross my name off the list. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, until a woman becomes free. She lifts her head, we make eye contact and she calls me to her.

The woman asks me the questions. I respond truthfully. Not that it matters. She then gives me the papers and tells me what to do with them. I’ve done this before. I don’t listen. Again, it won’t matter.

I anticipate what I’m about to do will be a catalyst for huge change.

As I walk towards the cardboard polling booths, I press the button in the cuff of my jacket and I wait. I pick up a pencil and stand still, erect. In just five seconds the bomb will explode.

I am a martyr for the cause.

Photo by Bench Accounting on Unsplash

10 thoughts on “Parcel”

  1. OK….I was a bit ho hum with some of the parts that didn’t seem to flow as well as you normally write but then again it might be me. Like this confused “My heart hits the floor” a phrase I’ve not heard before probably. I was wondering why the not sitting….and then I realised the polling station was coming but then BOOM which knocked me back in my seat and made me read this story again and again.
    Wonderful and as Gary said quite different 🙂

    Like

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