A Mystery Package

It was a Wednesday afternoon.

The package came in an unremarkable box, about the size of a paperback novel.

It had a label with the words "Hunter Law Firm" on it, with two dates scribbled in different handwriting underneath - today’s, and the 2nd of February, 2001.

Fuck.

Bringing it to my living room, I sat it down on the couch. Amy and the kids were at the park, so the house was quiet, for once. I found a cutter and sliced the seals open.

Pulling away some bubble wrap, I found an envelope with my name, Jordan Hendricks, written on it. The handwriting looked hauntingly familiar.

I opened the envelope and a red flash drive tumbled out onto my lap. I’ve seen this flash drive before – I had one just like it long ago. My laptop was in the study – figured I might as deal with what this was right now.

Plugging it in, I realized I had been holding my breath. A nagging, faded memory tugged at the back of my mind – nothing good was going to be on this.

A single video file titled “Jordan”. The memory came into focus just a bit more, and I double clicked on the file, bringing it all the way into the present.

I appeared onscreen, a younger version. A 2001 version. God, I looked young. I remember now. The flashdrive was new, an expensive gift from my mom; and I vaguely remember what I was about to see.

“Hi, Jordan.” Young Jordan was steely, cold. I could see the pain in his eyes.

“If you’re watching this in the year…2021, it means this shitty law firm didn’t shut down,” he laughed, despite the circumstance.

“I’m recording this to remind you of a dark time in my- our life.”

I was holding my breath again.

“Kelly’s gone.”

The two words cut deep, even in the present.

I exhaled and grimaced, holding back tears alongside myself in the video.

We had found Kelly that day, on the roadside, just past the driveway - her tiny bicycle helmet a few feet from her. I remember how she looked exactly the way she did during an afternoon nap, and how ridiculous it was that it was on the roadside. I remembered seeing the blood on her favorite Hello Kitty shirt, and her mangled bicycle covering her instead of her blanket.

“I need you to remember.” The video continued. “I need you to remember because I know you. I know you’ll forget, and I know you’ll move on, and I KNOW you will be busy. And she doesn’t DESERVE to be forgotten.” Young Jordan was a mess now, tears and snot. I wasn’t any better.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I told him, as I closed the video player.

I lifted the tiny bicycle helmet off the shelf behind me and grabbed my keys. It was time to visit her again.

It was her 20th death anniversary, after all.