It read, “Will you be mine?” There was no name, no one to whom it had originally addressed; just a crumpled red envelope, and a (mostly) blank white card, with the aforementioned question written inside on the right. The black ink had smeared, either at the time of writing or sometime during its travels through the curious woman’s pocket. It somehow made the question seem sad, desperate.

She gave me one last glance, then stepped away; mingling with the crowd that seemed to appear from out of nowhere at that very moment. I didn’t know what to do, and had anyone else given it to me, I probably would’ve tossed it. But the woman had been strangely, unconventionally attractive, so I kept it. I used it to buoy my spirits after what had been a particularly frustrating day at work. She could’ve given it to anyone, but she’d chosen me.

Back home, I set it on the kitchen counter and started to make myself something to eat. A few minutes into dinner preparations, I got this feeling in the back of my neck, like there was someone watching me. Turning around, I scanned my small apartment, able to see the entirety of the kitchen and the living room beyond from where I was standing at the stove. There wasn’t anyone in sight, and yet I still felt as if I were being observed. It was around 8pm, night had already set in, but my living room curtains were still open. I crossed the room, closed them, and returned to the kitchen.

The ominous feeling lingered, but I ignored it and finished cooking.

Halfway through eating dinner there was a knock at the door. I’d never had anyone stop by to visit before, so the occurrence was at once alarming. I sat there, frozen mid-chew, hoping that there’d been some kind of mistake; but another knock came. Rising from the table, I gripped my fork in my hand and crept toward the front door, trying not to announce my occupancy of the apartment. Reaching the door, I peered through the peephole, not exactly dreading what I’d see, but hoping not to see anyone.

My hope panned out—there wasn’t anyone there. And yet this unnerved me, because I hadn’t heard any departing footsteps.

Carefully, fork gripped tightly in my right hand, I opened the door an inch. No one occupied the space beyond, so I opened it all the way. The threshold was empty. Both ends of the hall were empty. I didn’t notice the evidence that anyone had even been there until I took a tentative step into the hall. Turning around to re-enter my apartment, I saw that someone had written something on the door. An unsettlingly familiar phrase: “Will you be my mine?”

And just like the ink in the card, the writing—dark paint, I hoped—was smeared; the letter “e” in “mine” no more than a trailing blot.

I hurried back inside and slammed the door. My heart was going crazy; I sensed that something was happening, that I was being subjected to some kind of prank or harassment. I had to hold onto the wall as I made my way back to the kitchen – my anxiety making my steps unsteady.

As I returned to my seat at the table– my appetite utterly lost – I was suddenly beset with the urge to look at the card again; to read it again, even though I knew what was written inside. I went over, grabbed it from the counter, and sat back down at; shoving my unwanted dinner aside. I withdrew the card from its envelope and set it on the table, a feeling of mounting unrest making my hands tremble. The blank white face of the card seemed to augur some terrible yet unguessable news; an infinite array of cryptic possibilities.

Finally, I willed my hands to open the card. Inside, written on every single inch of space, was the phrase, “Will you be mine?”. Over and over, in every direction, some instances more erratic than others; there was a terrible and terrifying variety to the scribblings. I’d never felt more disturbed by such a relatively simple thing.  

will you be mine?

Will you be mine???

WILL YOU BE MINE?!

I threw the card away. But after a few moments spent on the couch trying to calm myself, I got up, fetched my candle lighter, and burned the card in the kitchen sink. As the flames consumed it, crumpling and blackening the material, I felt a new sensation; not exactly nausea, but a bodily lightness. I gripped the counter, attempting to steady myself. It wasn’t until I had practically keeled over that I noticed the fumes weren’t grey or black or the color of any smoke I’d seen before—but red, as red as the envelope the card had been in.

Consciousness began to ebb away just as I heard the front door open. I remembered then that I hadn’t locked the door—I’d merely slammed it in my panic. “You idiot.” I thought to myself as darkness took me.

I awoke on my kitchen table, and the first thing I noticed was the chill – I was naked; had been stripped completely. Given the circumstances –as terrible as they were - I expected to be bound; but I was not, and promptly rolled off the table when I shifted my weight. I landed hard on my shoulder, and briefly hoped that I’d pass out again, if only to stop the flare of pain.

Recovering, using the table for leverage, I stood up. My senses were rekindled completely when I saw what was smeared on the table’s surface. It was, unmistakably, blood. My blood. As if activated by the sight, my nerves exploded, and pain coursed down the front of my body. I fell to my knees, my body over-wrought with agony. With one eye open—the other closed, as if that’d somehow mollify the pain—I examined myself.

From the top of my chest all the way down to my groin was the word “Mine.” Carved into my skin, as erratically as the darkly enigmatic question in the card. It was like I had been claimed, the word lacking a question mark; the wounds—still fresh—a grisly statement of ownership.

Every movement, no matter how subtle, brought a new spike of breath-stealing pain, so I just stayed there; kneeling on my kitchen floor, as errant streams of blood trickled from the wounds that had not yet coagulated. My one attempt to call for help brought so much pain that I almost fainted, so I refrained from doing even that; not wanting to bleed out while unconscious.

I stayed like that for over an hour, until my body had grown somewhat accustomed to the debilitation. Then I stood, cringing against the only slightly diminished agony—and shedding no small number of tears—and called the police.

They came, I was taken to the hospital, and they investigated what they could of my apartment and the evidence therein.

I’ve yet to hear any news of a lead or idea of the perpetrator; they’ve only informed me that the card—the one I’d burned—had been taken into evidence. I was shocked at this, and it must’ve shown on my face because the officer asked if something was wrong. I asked him how they had recovered the card, given what I’d done, and he said that there wasn’t anything wrong with it – that the alleged fire hadn’t damaged it at all.

An itch in the back of my mind compelled me to ask him another question, even as I grappled to comprehend what he’d told me.

“What did the card say inside?”

The officer met my eyes for a moment, a look of slight bewilderment on his face.

“It said, “I'm glad you’re mine.’”

Once I’m well enough to leave the hospital, I’m finding a new place to live. The landlord can have everything in my apartment - I'm never going back there. For the first time in my life, I’m happy I'll be spending Valentine’s Day alone.