Delivery for Room 812

There was a well founded reason Jacob Bringsley couldn’t bring himself to open the parcel handed to him moments prior, and the mere thought of that reason, tempted him to leap from the hotel balcony.

The concierge squinted, the whites of his eyes barely visible, his posture slumped; annoyed, perhaps, to be making a third delivery to room 812 within the hour. With an awkward, folded smile, Bringsley reached for the package, preemptively resisting the urge to leave it in the hall for an unfortunate stranger to steal.

“Should I be expecting any more deliveries tonight, sir?” the concierge asked, handing him the package. Bringsley swallowed, shaking his head in a way he hoped was relaxed and casual. Apologizing for the inconvenience, he swiftly shut the door, delivery in hand, oblivious to the man’s upturned, expectant palm.

In Bringsley’s defense, the first delivery had been an accident-- the takeout he’d unknowingly ordered to the hotel’s front desk. The concierge had delivered it with napkins, cutlery, and his best customer service smile, teeth bleached and neat like piano keys. The concierge had even humoured Bringsley with the second delivery only minutes later, offering a “fancy seeing you again”, and a somewhat less polite, implying smile, in wait of a tip that Bringsley dug for in his discarded jeans, as he was dawning the room’s (tightly drawn) complimentary robe.

Now, he stared at what he hoped was the third and final delivery. The package was neither big, nor small; neither beautifully wrapped, nor sloppy. It was folded in crisp brown paper, like the kind used for paper bag lunches, taped at each end in a neat triangle. It had no markings or postage, nothing signifying where or from whom it came. But Jacob Bringsley was uneager to open it, still recovering from the contents of the second delivery.

Delivery number two, like number one, had been unexpected. His mouth overflowing with glass noodles and shrimp, he’d paused his chewing when he heard the knocks, hoping to ignore whatever housekeeper or bothersome staff was there to intrude on his dinner.

“Mr. Bringlsey, I have another delivery, if you don’t mind,” the concierge had called through the door.

“Coming! One sec!” he’d replied, his words garbled by the food he’d quickly resumed chewing.

This parcel, a gift bag, had been beautifully wrapped. Elegant, even. So, without asking questions, he’d accepted it, eager to return to his dinner, assuming it was a frilly gift of complimentary toiletries and chocolates.

Pearl-pink ribbon tied the bag’s handles together, crisp tissue paper poking through its top like a small mountain range. His focus glued to the television’s hum, Bringsley tugged the bow loose, removing the tissue in wads, to reveal a small black box. His last coherent thought was that this certainly wasn’t the cheap mini shampoos and razors he’d anticipated.

The lid lifted back, its hinges squeaking faintly with the swift jerk. It was then, that the food soured in Bringsley’s mouth, a half-chewed texture of mushy noodles and shrimp enough to induce gagging, his senses suddenly explosive, urging him into flight. He lunged for the takeout bag, spitting, swearing, his forehead almost instantly shiny with sweat, the television’s weather channel blaring. He took quick, short inhales, frantically pawing through the bed’s sheets, desperate for the remote, desperate to hear himself think. Finally, he stormed for the television, feeling its sides for buttons to turn the thing off altogether.

Package number two, contained a finger. Jacob Bringsley’s brother’s finger.

It’d been cut just above the third knuckle. Bringsley immediately recognized one of his brother’s thick, gold bands, its ostentatious diamond encrusted “C” a clear confirmation of the finger's owner. Gagging, he quickly shut the box, throwing it back into its gift bag. He couldn’t help but realize the irony that the ring he’d been sent as a threat, could almost certainly cover the money he owed those who’d sent it. What was worse, is they certainly knew this.

Bringsley gripped his hair, pulling it violently, his eyes watering from the pain. He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the bag, hands folded over knees, trembling. For nearly thirty minutes he stared, unmoving, thoughtless, the image of his brother’s pale finger stuck to his mind like a fly to web, splattered with the memory of blood; haloed, dried, and caked to the linen-lined box. He refused to accept what he’d seen, while his body refused action. He was frozen; weighed, by terror and guilt, fighting to forget his brother’s smile, his sister-in-law’s laugh, his nephew’s bright future. The package had numbed Bringsley, and he was content in his denial.

But of course, then came delivery number three. Thirty minutes later, on the dot.

Bringsley answered the door in a trance, awakened by the blood whipping to his head when he saw the package gripped by the annoyed concierge. Quickly adopting a forced nonchalance, he took the package with haste, resting the parcel next to its counterpart. Staring as he had before, Bringsley clenched his fists.

And all at once, the realities he’d avoided clicked into place, overwhelming his mind like a hive full of bees. He’d purposely left his cell in Boston to avoid being tracked by the loan sharks. He hadn’t memorized any of the phone numbers he needed, and he didn't have the slightest idea how to contact them otherwise. The first package had no instructions for a ransom, no numbers to call. He could call the police, but he wouldn't know who to send them to. His brother might be dead. His brother’s family might be dead. And he had an unopened package that could very well contain another limb.

Bringsley peeled the robe from his arms, shaking, his breathing quickened to brief inhales, and long, forced exhales. Heavy with sweat, the robe fell to the floor with a satisfying thwap, and as he dressed, he considered his options: the first (and least likely, but most tempting) was to jump from his terrace into the streets of New York; a cowardly, poetic death. The more likely options, were ditching the package in a dumpster, or praying its gorey contents came with some goddamn instructions. Shaking, he opted for the latter.

Like a child on Christmas, eagerly, he tore through the brown paper, revealing another black, velvet box. His chest burning with pressure, Bringsley's hummingbird pulse rattled so loud, he was sure the concierge would rush into the room at any moment, demanding he leave the hotel at once. Bringsley swallowed, held his breath, and opened the box in one swift jerk.

The absence of limbs made him nearly burst into tears.

He blinked, his shoulders released, bobbing as he exhaled. The box had been weighed with stones, a folded piece of paper taped to its lid. Bringsley carefully peeled it away, unfolding it with equal care. It read:

Hey asshole.

A group of men came around my house asking for you, some mafia-wannabe dickheads. Said you owed them money-- you're lucky I got my bonus early this quarter. You better count your lucky stars Lisa and Andrew weren’t home when they showed up. But if you ever pull that shit again, putting my family in danger like that, I’ll kill you myself.

Hope you liked the finger, Lisa knows some big shot special effects guy from her college days. The ring was her idea. We hope you shit your pants.

Get your ass home by tomorrow, bring the ring. And don’t throw the finger away, it was expensive.

-Collin

P.S. You left your laptop open to the hotel you booked. Bet your ass I’m telling this story at Thanksgiving.

Bringsley’s pale cheeks were hot, his terror transformed to horror, embarrassment, and finally, relief. He returned to the bag, opening the box carefully, poking at the finger with a hotel pen. He sighed, placing it back into its bag before setting to pack the remainder of the room.

As he passed the front desk, suitcase in tow, the concierge ran between Bringsley and the door.

“Sir--sir, are you leaving? I should inform you, we do charge an early checkout f--”

“Rest of the week’s pre-paid, don’t worry about it.”

The concierge squinted.

“Sir, may I ask-- were you satisfied with your stay?”

Bringsley stifled a yawn, his stomach rumbling.

“Mm? Oh, yeah, it was great.”

He walked for the exit, his suitcase wheels whining as he ignored the man’s outstretched hand and ensuing scowl. Although he was happy to return to the apartment and city he'd abandoned, and equally relieved to not shoulder the guilt of his brother's murder, Jacob Bringsley still fought the urge to walk into traffic, the temptation of death luring him to escape the smug welcome he’d inevitably be met with at home. Sighing, he begrudgingly packed his car, carefully hiding the finger in the glove compartment before pulling out from the parking garage, mentally counting the days until Thanksgiving.