It’s a yellow sticky note today. Blue ink. Just the one line: “Your hair is shit and so are you.”
Bit lacklustre. Not witty, not clever, not even particularly brutal. Perhaps the culprit’s losing his knack. After all, this is sticky note number 398. They’re bound to run out of insults to throw at me eventually. They can’t all be fierce doozies like number 187 (“Mr. Blobby called. He wants his body back.”) or number 249 (“Do something for the greater good. Kill yourself.”). They’ll probably stop soon.
Mind you, that’s what I said to myself with sticky note number 28 (“Roses are red, Violets are blue. Wish you were dead, But that’s nothing new.”). That was back when it was still a novelty to find an anonymous insult scribbled on a sticky note and stuck to my desk every morning. They didn’t stop then and they probably won’t stop now. Not until the day comes that I discover who it is and confront them.
And that day, fingers crossed, will be today. All I have to do is review the footage, and there’s no time like the present.
Cute little spy-cam, it is. Small enough to hide on top of the filing cabinet without it being easily noticed. Let’s hope the video is decent enough quality to see the face of the person who hates me so passionately that they’re prepared to write me angry wee hate notes every single bloody day.
Here we go; the cam spotted movement at 2.39 AM. In they come – where did they get a key for my office door? They’re approaching the desk. They’ve got their hood up, looking down. Can’t see their face. They’re pulling something out their pocket. It’s the sticky note, pre-written. How bloody efficient. This is a serious operation. They lay it in the usual spot, right in front of my keyboard. I still can’t see their face. What a waste of… no. Wait.
They look up, right at the spy-cam like they know it’s there, and give it a big, shit-eating grin.
It’s me. It’s my face. My grin.
Christ. I haven’t walked in my sleep since I was a kid. 398 times this has happened. No wonder I’m so dog tired all the time.
It all makes sense, actually, now I think about it. The handwriting always did look familiar. And nobody can hate me like I can.Follow Ellie Scott on WordPress.com