“I don’t want anything from you,” it said. “Understand that. I don’t want money, or immunity, or a helicopter, or anything. That’s not to say I want for nothing. I want. Oh, how I want. It feels like that’s all I’m made for–all any of us is made for. You want, don’t you, Judith? You want Allen back. But you won’t get him. Not until I get what I want. But remember: I don’t want ANYTHING from you. Not ever.”
This was the thirty-seventh time Judith read the note. She turned the paper over in her hand. Nothing on the back this time. Like the last thirty-six times. She turned it back over. It was written in pencil, in a shaky but familiar cursive.
It was Allen’s handwriting.
She had yet to call the police. She thought it must have been a prank, and that Allen would spring out of a cupboard and laugh. She looked in all the cupboards, her hands shaking in fear and hope to find her husband leaping out at her. He never did.
And even if she contacted the police, what would they say? They’d say this was Allen’s way of leaving her. After all, his things were gone, as if he’d never been there at all. But she knew him better than anyone in the world could possibly know him. If he was leaving her, he wouldn’t write a ransom note in his own handwriting.
And… he wouldn’t leave her in the first place.
“Are you going to let me look at it or aren’t you?” Judith’s sister asked.
It took time, but eventually Judith relented. Margery took the letter and scanned it with a frown. “I don’t understand,” she said finally. “Who is Allen?”
Judith remained silent.
“Judith… This is your handwriting. Why did you write this?”
Day 223’s three random writing prompt categories were, “A ransom note,” “Twist ending,” and, “A helicopter.”
Dun dun dunnn(?).