Twenty-Four Hours to Live?

What if you received a letter in the mail stating you were going to die exactly twenty-four hours from the moment you opened the envelope? And what if the letter explained it was going to be an unusual accident and there was no way to change the outcome?
That’s what happened to me. I received such a letter—no return address and no sender’s name. My mail came late that day – five o’clock on a Friday afternoon—my favorite day of the week. After retrieving the mail from my front porch, I stood in the doorway sifting through what I thought was mostly junk correspondence. That’s when I noticed the pretty envelope, a dark yellow with hazy blue writing, an unusual color arrangement yet handsome design. My name and address were written in an elegant script, perfectly contoured to the left. After opening the envelope, I began reading, still standing by the door. I read, reread, and then read again before turning to sit down on the couch. My first thought was, geez, what kind of jerk would send such a message? Anger took hold—who would do this to me? Sitting for a while, staring at the typed words on the white paper, at the lines, at the individual letters, I knew it was real. The message was not a hoax; it was true. In twenty-four hours I would be dead—the life I now know, gone forever.
I have no family—no husband, no kids, no parents, no siblings. Who would I tell, what would I do next? I do have friends—good friends—but would I confide in them? No, I decided—they would call me crazy. I knew at that moment that this unsolicited knowledge was my secret, my burden. I would tell no one.
I considered getting in bed, pulling the covers to my chin, allowing the twenty-fourth hour to approach. How could I die of an accident if I stayed in bed—still and calm? But of course, I could die. The forecasted storm could cause a tree to fall on the roof, thus caving in my bedroom. Or a black widow spider could crawl onto the bed and bite my foot, thus killing me with its poison. Or even worse, an electrical wire in the basement could malfunction, and I could die the worst death imaginable, by fire.
I’m not young, but I’m not old either—damn it. I’m healthy and I do enjoy life, my life, I’m not ready to die. It was now seven o’clock Friday night and I was still sitting on the couch. I thought about my “bucket list” although I never really considered it such. I wanted my fiction to be published and widely read by all, my name known to readers, my books displayed in stores. I wanted to see Germany’s Black Forest again, and I wanted to visit Normandy where my grandfather was buried, and of course, there was always China. But mostly, I wanted to return to Savannah, the city that had always calmed my soul--my haven of giant oaks with Spanish moss, southern charm, and the best mint juleps anywhere. But there was no time to get my writings published or to make trips.
It was now nine o’clock p.m. I considered going to a bar, sitting next to a stranger, sharing my dilemma. Misery loves company as they say. But I decided I didn’t want to spend any of my remaining twenty-four hours half drunk with someone I didn’t know. About that time, still on the couch, I slowly lowered my head to the pillow. The hunger I felt earlier, gone.

I slept—dreaming I was walking on a serene boulevard lined with live oaks, on a street I’d never seen in a town I didn’t know. The morning sun shimmering across my bedroom floor caused me to open my eyes. Oddly my first thought was how much I loved my dark hardwood. My house is old and the floors original. They were around before me, and they’ll be around after me. It’s strange to think a floor older than I will be here long after I’m gone.
Then I starting wondering—who would buy my house? What would happen to my things? I do have a will, written long ago, long before I realized I would die someday. I had bequeathed my belongings to the daughter of a cousin. My cousin had passed away and I hadn’t seen the daughter in years. I have to admit the words—the little bitch—crossed my mind. She would inherit my belongings. I never really liked her. I didn’t even like my cousin. That thought hung in my mind for a bit, but then I was left with a sense of—who cares, what difference does it make?
It is now eight o’clock on Saturday morning. Nine hours left to live. You might wonder why I would sleep so late. The answer is I simply did not wake up, but then, what else was I going to do? Stay up worrying about the last hour of my life? I walked to the kitchen and put coffee on—only about three cups though. Normally I would make a whole pot and simply drink the left over the second day. But there would be no second day for me. Why waste coffee? That’s me, forever frugal to a fault.
My stomach rumbled—a hunger pang. I ignored it. I always wondered how inmates who were going to the death chamber could eat a “last meal.” Who would want to die with a full stomach? It made me sick to think of it. No, I wouldn’t be eating today.
It was Saturday. There were errands to do. Clary’s Cleaners had two sweaters ready to be picked up, I was out of bananas, and my car needed gas. But along about nine o’clock, after two cups of coffee, I realized I wouldn’t be using my sweaters, I wouldn’t be eating any more bananas, and my car would be okay without gas.
I grew up in a religious home, believing that when humans die, they go to one of two places—heaven or hell. Honestly, I don’t much believe that anymore. But then where will I go? Is there life after death? Or will my body simply return to dust? What will happen to my thoughts, my memories, my soul? I didn’t feel much like dwelling on this aspect of my situation. It was too late to ask God for forgiveness. I’d lived with any sins I committed, and I’d be dying with them too.
Noon—now five hours to live.
Memories, that’s what I decided I wanted to do. I’d look at old albums, my grandparents and my parents. I missed them. Maybe I would be able to talk to them soon. But really, I didn’t believe that. Five albums absorbed my attention for a while.
My grandmother looked old and feeble. At least I would never roam around not remembering my name or knowing where I was half the time—or have to live in a nursing home where my underpants were changed twice daily by someone I didn’t know.
Two o’clock. Three hours left.
My veranda on the east side of my house is where I find peace after a stressful day. Surrounded by plants, mostly gardenias, I can sit in my swing and read, write, or think, perhaps with a glass of merlot. It was a warm day in October, so I decided to enjoy my porch for what was going to be the last time. Then I got an idea. I stepped inside to fetch my laptop, wanting to search “what if you knew when you were going to die”. How had others handled this wicked knowledge? Mostly the sites talked about people who had terminal illnesses. Their knowledge was different from mine. They didn’t know “exactly” the moment they would die.
Still sitting on my porch about four o’clock, one hour left, I recalled what had brought happiness to my life. Dancing to rock and roll, touring gothic hotels, going on long walks, sharing a bottle of wine with girlfriends, writing dark fiction, reading a scary mystery, and trying new recipes. I realized at that moment it was the simple things I would miss. I never made that trip to China, and somehow that would be okay. But fifty years from now, would anyone remember that I had ever lived? In ten years would anyone remember? If not, that would have to be okay too.
Then, suddenly my eyes opened. I looked at my phone, six-thirty a.m. on Friday morning. Time to get up for work. But I needed an extra moment before I moved. A vague memory of a middle of the night dream bothered me, my heart was beating a little faster than it should, my head had a slight ache just above my right eye, and the faintest scent of gardenias seemed to hang in the air—a flower I hadn’t grown in years. Then I noticed that lovely morning sun shimmering across my bedroom. That’s when I knew that my real Friday was ready to be lived. And oddly, as I was getting ready for work—I thought about my will—I needed to pull that thing out of the lockbox and review it.
That Friday morning I felt grateful -- for waking up after a bad dream and for the lovely day approaching—even though I had eight hours of work in front of me before I could enjoy the weekend. Time was running short. No time for breakfast so I grabbed a small bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator and turned to head out the side door to my car. That’s when I noticed it, on top of the table next to the screen door, the envelope with the unusual yellow and the hazy blue handwriting elegantly slanted to the left.