The Unmarked Letter

Part of the opening of a crappy story I'm writing.

[U]The Unmarked Letter[/U]

It was a raining as Cora walked along the pavement; dismal sheets of mist that fell from a troubled, grey sky. Ominous clouds rumbled and darkened. The moisture gradually soaked into her woollen coat and clothes, wetting her brown hair so it began to drip rivulets of rainwater down her pale, angular face. A pair of grey eyes squinted in the wet, registering the depressing scene. The buildings were new enough. They were usually red bricked with clean, double-glazed windows but the falling rain was streaking their walls a darker, duller colour. Each door looked the same, and each one had a clean new knocker on the door. Normally every house on the street shone with uniform precision on a sunny day, but on this morning they were dulled by the gloom. Everything seemed to be an unpleasant shade of grey.
Cora carried a bag of shopping along a darkening concrete pavement, reaching into her left pocket for her house keys. She only found a tissue, which she used to blow her nose, and then reached with her left hand to try the right pocket. They were there, and she exhaled a brief sigh of relief, suppressing the minor panic that had risen. The rain had started to fall more heavily. She came to the last house in the street, turned the key in the lock and hurried quickly inside.
The hallway was quiet and still compared to the rain outside, which had now started to make a steady pattering sound. She wiped her feet on the ‘welcome’ mat and hung her scarf and coat on the end of the banister; they had gotten damp and slightly heavy. She left her keys and bag on the hall table, accidentally knocking over a picture frame. She set it back up again and checked her watch. Half past five. She sighed. Buying dinner hadn’t taken as long as she’d hoped. Picking up the shopping again, she wandered into the kitchen, muttering “I hate Sundays,” as her woolly socks slid slightly on the tiled floor.
She put the ready meals in the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of juice and sat down with it at the bar counter that had been crammed into the small cooking area. She glanced at the clock on the wall that was styled like a blue sun with long rays, as it ticked loudly, slowly and methodically. Faced with the prospect of being alone with nothing but schoolwork for at least another two hours, she stared at her glass with a dead expression, just pausing to take a sip from it every ten seconds. She did it in time with the clock. When the drink was finished, she placed the glass by the sink and leant backwards against the counter. Using two hands she raised herself up onto it, swinging her legs backwards and forwards, examining the motion of her feet.
She slid off the counter, ambled into the living room, dropped onto the sofa, rubbed at her eyes and yawned. Her insomnia was getting worse, no matter what she tried, and it was beginning to affect her. Sitting absorbed in her thoughts, she jumped when the front door was wrenched open. “Cora?”
Mrs. Bailey entered, flapping a large umbrella, her heeled shoes echoing in the hallway. Cora sat up on the sofa, hearing her mother through the wall, and her arm reached out to the coffee table, her fingers landing on a well-thumbed paperback which she opened at a random page and pretended to read; her curled up posture gave the impression of someone well-rested and relaxed. She listened to her mother taking off her shoes and coat. Mrs. Bailey reappeared at the doorway. “My last two appointments cancelled for today, bizarre really, but I could get away early. Want me to fix us dinner?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’ll be upstairs getting changed.” With that, she withdrew. Cora dropped the book and contemplated watching television, but predicted that it would do little to stimulate her. Instead she called into the kitchen, where she could hear her mother going through the fridge and cupboards. “Mum…”
“Yes?”
“Have you got any of those sleeping pills left?”
“No, you’ve finished them off.”
“Could you get some more?”
Mrs Bailey reappeared at the doorway. “I don’t think they’re working. There’s no point using as many as you do.”
“They help, they really do.”
She placed a hand on her forehead and ran it over her hair pensively. “I’ll ring Doctor Newbold for advice, but I don’t want you taking any more medication.”
Cora frowned and said, “Fine.” She pushed herself onto her feet and left the room, leaving her mother to return to the kitchen. She paused in the hallway to pick up the post that had been lying on the side table since that morning. She examined each address briefly; they were mostly for her parents and uninteresting. She dropped them back down and went up the carpeted stairs to her bedroom, which was immediately on the left. There was just one other room belonging to her parents, and a small, blue-tiled bathroom. Her father was on a business trip to somewhere in America.
She flicked the light switch in her room, turned her computer on and stretched over the bed to pull the curtains shut, blocking out the grey world. The room was small but cosy, with just a bed, desk, bookshelf and chest of drawers. Her cream walls had a modest collection of scattered posters, but not nearly as many as in her room in their previous home. Yawning, she picked up a red hairbrush and was just pulling it through her damp hair when the computer stopped whirring, and sat ready for service, quietly humming. It was only after she had sat in front of her desk that she noticed the letter. The envelope was sitting on the scattered bits of paper beside her computer, and she curiously picked it up with pale fingers. It was made of old paper, like parchment, but it was addressed to her. Her name had been written in black ink in flowing, detailed handwriting. There was no stamp or address, so it must have been delivered by hand.
She turned it over, holding it delicately in her hands, and was even more surprised to see a red wax seal keeping it closed. She broke it, and tugged out a folded piece of yet more parchment. Unfolding it, she saw it was written in the same ink, in the same fluid strokes. What was written was this:

FOR THE RESTLESS SLEEPER

The roots of a Passion Flower
& Red Clover,
Reishi Mushrooms
& Sage.

She read it twice, her forehead creasing in thought, wondering who would have sent her this, and why they had used parchment – or how they could have known her name, or even her sleeping troubles. She assumed these plants were ingredients of a herbal remedy that helped sleep; she checked the qualities of each of them on the internet and found that they were traditionally used to soothe and cause drowsiness. Examining the letter again, she decided that it had to be a publicity stunt from a company that specialised in herbal remedies. They must have gotten hold of the customer records at the nearest chemist’s.
Returning to the search engine, she did some more browsing and found plenty of herbal remedies on offer; sold in tiny glass vials by the hundred. However, they all seemed expensive and promised more of a psychological effect than an actual cure. She put the computer on stand by and went back downstairs. She found her mother in the kitchen still, standing by a counter browsing an open cookery book. She looked up as Cora came in. “Do you fancy stir fry?” She tilted the book in Cora’s direction so she could see the recipe’s accompanying photograph.
“Yeah, okay.” She paused for a second. “When did that letter for me arrive?”
“I saw it this morning before I left.” She turned a page of the book. “I put it on your desk while you were in the shower… it must’ve been delivered by hand. Who on earth was it from?”
“It was just an advertisement.”
Mrs Bailey tutted. “They’ll do anything these days.” She tapped a place on the open page. “Could you fetch the reishi mushrooms from the fridge?”
Cora did nothing for a moment, but then went and got them, placing them gingerly on the counter. “They’re new.”
Her mother bent down and took the chopping board from a cupboard. “Yes, I thought we’d try something exotic.” She looked at her slightly suspiciously for a moment and said, “You still like mushrooms, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. It’s Jack who doesn’t.”
“Ah, great. Good thing he’s not here then, eh?”
Cora shrugged and started to leave the room, but her mother called out, “Oh, and what do you think of those flowers on the hall table? This morning I just felt this sudden desire to get some plants for the house; don’t you think they make it feel like a home? They’re called passion flowers.”

Out in the hallway, Cora stood, staring dumbstruck at the bright plant. She managed to call, in a slightly strangled voice, “They’re nice…”, before running up the stairs on the balls of her feet. Once in her room again, shaking her head slightly, she took her biology textbook off the shelf and lay on the bed with it. For the following hour she was absorbed in taking notes, aware of the gentle patter of rain above her head, and the occasional clatter of saucepans from the kitchen below. Soon, she was able to smell their dinner wafting up the stairs. Lulled by the familiar sounds and warmth, she was having difficulty keeping her eyes open. She laid her head on the pillow, felt the softness of it on her cheek, and felt safe and comfortable.