Reagan's Invitation
(Chapter of unnamed WIP. Read Order: 1)
Reagan had taken days to even consider opening the envelope. On the outside it was harmless. Pristine and very black with a sort of satiny finish that made a satisfying little sound when she drew her fingernails over the handwritten letters of gold ink addressing its contents to her. From Rinna. The moment she'd seen it in her mailbox, a tiny swoop of adrenaline and anxiety had flushed through her body, making its cold way into her core. Why an envelope should make her so nervous was something deeper than she was willing to unpack just yet. So, instead of dealing with it, Reagan had tossed the envelope in the pile of mail on the table inside the door and forgotten about it as forcefully as she could without the aid of illicit substance.
Reagan was 15 days sober. And determined to let the past, along with the scars on her arms, fade into the background as much as she could with as little self-reflection as possible. Though some was necessary, she knew, if she wanted to move forward away from addiction. The envelope nagged at the edges of her subconscious however, weighing heavily just out of sight, buried beneath bills she was also ignoring. She could FEEL it there whenever she sat in front of her computer to write or in front of the television to scroll mindlessly through the channel guide, imagining what it would be like to watch the shows she was reading about on the screen but never actually settling on any one thing to watch. Because that envelope was tugging at the mental barrier she'd placed around it. And all the memories that threatened to explode upward to the surface if she ever stopped shoving them down for even a moment.
Her studio apartment was quiet, small, empty. Mostly. Other than the useful and mail-encumbered table beside the front door, there was the threadbare couch she'd been given by her sponsor which belied a decade of use in a house with small children rendering it an unknown grayish beige color. Nearby was the stack of cardboard boxes which stored most of her worldly belongings and on which her laptop rested. Across from that was another small stack of cardboard boxes holding up the small flat screen she'd acquired somewhere; though where she couldn't say but she suspected it had been under nefarious circumstances. A grumpy, inaccurate microwave and the refrigerator were in the kitchenette. The fridge buzzed and hummed as though it were a happy house wife in some Disney princess dimension. The microwave needed an exorcism and had elicited at least one instance of angry next door neighbor pounding on the wall when the glass turntable her midnight burrito was defrosting on stopped turning and began shrieking instead. She'd taken to talking to both appliances at times, having given them names. The fridge being Twila, the microwave called Damien. She knew it was a little crazy but so was sitting alone with her thoughts these days. Not to mention, didn't people have talking boxes in their houses now that played music and listened to all their conversations for the CIA? And it wasn't like the appliances spoke back. Yet.
With all these things nestled around her, Reagan should have felt safe. She pondered this, the logic of it. Safety in the closeness of ordinary things. Things that were familiar, didn't change, and belonged to her. Well, mostly. All of it should have had the affect of building her confidence that she could relax, rest. Somehow that feeling was always just out of reach. Somehow it felt as though some larger, apex predator would find her and run her out away from all she could call hers in this world. And that envelope added to the uneasiness.
In fact, she had to curse herself for not having chosen to give up that post office box. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Back before she'd spent her days in what felt like hell, going through withdrawal and detox and recovery. A mailbox that had a stable address where, even if she was homeless for a time (or a long time), people could always reach her. It had worked well for years. Periodically if she had a place, she would send them a request to forward her mail to the address where she was living. A friend's house. A boyfriend's place. It always seemed that as soon as she felt she could do that though, the relationship or friendship dissolved faster than cotton candy in water. And it was back to relying on that thin layer of stability provided by the post office box. Not that she'd received much mail to it over the years. A postcard or two from her dad when he'd had enough time to forget that she was the black sheep of the family. A bill that had been missent, forwarded on by an ex she didn't want to think about. Sometimes a note from Ruby on pretty-scented cards from her own personal line of stationery. Never a word from her mother which was how Reagan liked that. And even less from Rin. Until now.
It wasn't until she'd had the envelope from Rin for a full week that Reagan finally decided to see what her little sister had sent her. She came home from her double shift at the Night Whale, a celestial and aquatic themed restaurant; a place that tried her patience more than anything in her life ever had. Her sponsor had told her it was good to get out of the house, out of her head, pour into other people. Reagan had snorted at that last bit. She knew her sponsor believed heavily in the idea that serving other people gave you perspective, helped you stay out of the bad thoughts, and could heal your soul. Reagan just wanted to pop a few pills and knock a few heads together when she was at work. But somehow that, in and of itself, was an amazing motivator. She kept her cool. She kept her smile. She used the fury and desperation for a fix to propel her forward through the shift and get stronger. She was finally building some metal and she liked that she was learning her own limits and abilities. It was exhausting though and, even though she'd thought long and hard about the envelope on the bus ride home, she still came in the door, slid her feet out of her shoes at the door, and promptly turned her back on the table with its mountain of unopened mail.
She attempted to make a sandwich, slicing avocado and piling ham onto thick slabs of challah which made her chuckle to herself. Irreverent. But her attention kept straying away. The news played on the television in the room behind her and her mind wandered away from the stories. It was when she found herself paused, one hand on the paper towel she was going to carry her sandwich on to the couch, unsure of how long she'd been lost in her thoughts, that she stopped trying to avoid the inevitable. With a long sigh, Reagan left her meal on the counter and stood before the table beside the door. She'd been pretty careful to bury the black envelope beneath white envelopes and circulars but somehow there was a corner sticking out in plain sight now.
In the background, Twila the refrigerator suddenly buzz-hummed as though awakening with excitement, and Reagan almost laughed out loud.
"You're crazy, Reagan," she murmured.
Yet she still took a breath and held it like she had always down when she was little and about to do something that made her very nervous. Then she let it out in a rush and snatched the black envelope from the stack. Her name glittered in gold which she could have sworn bled into a deep red for a moment as she turned the envelope over in her hand.
"Right," she said and the refrigerator whirred quietly. Procrastinating, trying to break the tension, Reagan looked over her shoulder at the machine and said, "Can you not? I don't need a spooky soundtrack!"
She moved to the couch, envelope in hand, and settled with her legs crossed beneath her. The air felt warmer suddenly and she was acutely aware of the smell of grease in her dark hair. The envelope was heavy in her fingers, surely it couldn't weigh all that much, could it? Still, dread settled into the pit of her stomach. This was going to suck. Bad. Because the only reason she'd be getting this kind of envelope from Rin would be a wedding. And weddings meant seeing family. And family meant remembering all of it. Whether she wanted to or not. Reagan wasn't sure she was ready. No, screw that, she was definitely not ready and a surge of anger at her little sister welled up to overcome the fear she'd felt moments before. In fact, screw this invitation. She wasn't going to anything with her family! Her fingers curled into the thick black paper and it began to crease. She wanted to rip it to shreds, dump it into the sink, and light it on fire. Watch it burn, black tendrils of smoke washing away the potential for memory, cleansing her of past pain.
A tiny pop startled Reagan and fear sent a shiver through her, taking over once more. The envelope had opened with the pressure of her grip and whatever was inside was making a quiet ticking sound. Reagan looked at it in horror.