Thank you, for your withdrawal.

The safe had been Alexander's father's, and his father's father's, and so on. The book inside had also been his father's, and his father's father's. Unlike his father however, whose safe had contained a little book that was poison green in color, the little notebook inside was now black. Not an ordinary black either but a black that was uncomfortable to look at.

When his father passed he had inherited the safe, with his father's dying wish being that he takes the safe and its contents and keeps them always. He had done so, only recently opening it weeks later to find the black book lying there innocently in the dusty safe interior. Just like his father's had always done. He had opened the safe, stared at the book for a long time, and then closed it, spun the old dial, and gone to bed.

Three days later, when getting the mail the cheque had arrived. Addressed to him, in the amount of two thousand dollars. No return address the only signature on the cheque a large stylized set of initials M.S. Alexander glanced around looking for anything out of the ordinary. The mail trucks had long gone, and no one lingered about today on their meticulous suburban lawns.

He carried the envelope inside, and when he removed the check a small placard fell from within to the floor. Written on its front:

Thank you, for your withdrawal.

He stood puzzled a moment before rushing to his bedroom, he shifted his closet around until he had slid the safe from its place at the back to the middle of his bedroom. He opened it and stared at it a while, his disbelief slowly turning to anxiety and then understanding.

When he was young, and they had been on hard times his father had always opened the safe, stared at the book a while, and then closed it back up. Every great once in a while, late at night, when his father had been sure he was asleep, he'd open the safe and cry. About what? Alexander never knew. It's preposterous surely he thought to himself. Going as far as to scoff out loud at the ideas ruminating in his head. A mistake obviously. This is a neighbor...A joke, a result of a typo. He thought before muttering out loud.

"It's just not possible."

He took the cheque, stuffed it forcefully, angrily almost into his top drawer, and then he moved to the old safe; slamming the door shut and moving it back to exactly where it had been in his closet. Tomorrow morning I'll go door to door and I'll check with the neighbors to see who was expecting a cheque. He thought to himself determinedly.

So the next morning, as early as politely possibly he walked his entire block, going door to door and asking about a cheque gone missing. Only to be turned down repeatedly. To make matters worse, just as he had been assuring himself that he had been the victim of a prank, he had received another one. Just the same, addressed to him, large stylized M.S. and the same placard.

Thank you, for your withdrawal.

Again this unnerved him. How could they know when he opened his safe? Had they also sent his father these cheques these innocuous thanks and subtle warnings of surveillance? He rose from his seat at the kitchen table and made his way upstairs. He deposited the cheque in his top drawer and he pulled the safe out again. This time he did not open it. Instead this time he felt around its edges, looking for any wires, catches, or holes drilled in the surface. Hoping to find something to indicate he was being watched, but there was simply nothing to find.

So he sat on the ground for a bit, the safe sitting there resting between his legs with the door facing him; after what seemed like years of gathering his courage he reached out with slightly shaking hands and opened the safe. He inspected the inside. Carefully, wiping out what was probably decades of dust with his hands until he has also felt every inch of the inside. Again he felt no indication that there was any divot or imperfection that a surveillance device of some kind could be fit to.

Not that anyone would be remotely interested in what I do day-to-day! He thought exasperatedly.

Then he closed the safe and moved it back, and he waited, and sure enough in three days' time, a cheque arrived. All the same. Every bit of it, so tentatively he took the cheques and he cashed them at his bank. Cautiously peeking around, and waiting to be told that it was a prank or joke. That he had broken the law somehow and would need to be arrested; but it never came, the teller was friendly and the cheques cleared nearly instantly, it wasn't fifteen minutes before he was out of there.

He spent the money on his Bill's at first, paying them up, and then doing something nice for himself that he couldn't typically afford on his limited salary; then, when he was struggling again he opened the safe. Received the money, and the placard. Cashed the cheque. Then relaxed. He did this twice more before he got ill.

Strange, his doctor called. Terminal, the specialist had called it. He had gotten some type of disease or cancer, incurable, terminal. It wasn't there at his last physical, but now six months later, after a bad coughing fit, he had gone to see his doctor. They had X-Rayed his lungs hoping to see the moisture, only they hadn't seen moisture. Masses, growing everywhere, he had months maybe a year or two at most. When the costs had been mentioned he had merely shrugged and declared "I'll try everything it takes, no matter the cost." Just like his father.

He had gone straight home and opened the safe twice in quick succession. The second time, just before he shut the door and waited for his money his eyes lingered on the book. He had been afraid, subconsciously he had been afraid to read the book, to peer at its contents for fear it would reduce him to tears just like his father; but he was dying now, when would he ever have a better chance? He was dying, wasn't he? So if he did indeed open the book and peer at the contents then at least he wouldn't have to deal with the repercussions at all. So he reached out and plucked the book from its resting spot. The area underneath it leaving a dust-free area where it once rested.

He opened it and was unsurprised and maybe even a little disappointed to find that it was a journal, seemingly filled. He assumed it was his father's when he looked at the date at the top of the page.

Dec 11 1982 the day and year he was born, he thumbed the book quickly and saw every page, front to back, filled. But there, in the back he was missing quite a few pages, months maybe. Ripped out at the seams. He ran his fingers along the edges of the torn paper, feeling the ridges like you would an old scar. He turned back to the title page and began to read. But was quickly confused since not only was the journal not in his father's handwriting but in his own. The entire book was in the first person as well, although he himself had kept a detailed record of his very existence. He began skipping ahead hurriedly becoming more and more unnerved, he had never written something like this before, had never even seen this stupid little black book before, and yet here it was, not only detailing his life but also his honest thoughts and opinions about it.

By the time he reached the end, he could see that the journal not only cataloged his past but held pages on the future. It even had a page about this, sitting here reading the book becoming upset. So he blew past those pages, eager to see the end, desperate to see how and where he beats this illness and has to stop as he realizes that information is lost, lost in the missing pages. About five months or so, at least if the book is consistent in keeping his days to a page and a half. Saddened Alexander tosses the book back into the safe and slams the door.

His cheques arrive later in the week and he continues to ruminate on the book and its missing pages. After his last weekly doctor's visit, he once again opens the safe and removes the book, only to find two more months have vanished. He stared disbelievingly at the small notebook, a sickening feeling coming into his stomach. He isn't sure where the idea comes from, or why it sounds so horribly, horribly right to his scared kind; but suddenly Alexander feels suddenly too aware of what's happening. With shaking hands he closes the book and replaces it in the safe before closing the door, and opening it. He again removes the notebook and feels an even larger gap in the back of the book as more pages have gone missing. He tosses the book back into the safe and closes and opens it once more to confirm what he already knows is true. Every time he opens the safe pages are removed from the book.

Now the last remaining pages end at the month of April, this month. Of this year. Just like his father Alexander stares into the safe now at its contents, and slowly begins to weep.

A month later, at Alexander's funeral, his entire family gathered. The pastor stands at the front of the hall and speaks from a black granite podium with large stylized letters. A golden M.S. and adorning Alexanders casket a lovely arrangement of lilies with the placard:

Thank you, for your withdrawal.

Before the service is done and everyone is out of their seats, the pastor makes one last announcement. An announcement to Alexander's ex-wife and estranged son.

"He had a will, and has made out on single bequeathment. To his son."