Worst. Birthday. Ever. Julie thought, kicking off her heels. Over her 30th birthday dinner, her new boyfriend had berated her about everything from her sexual history (too extensive) to her email (which he’d secretly read and declared “flirtatious”).
Bastard, she thought, heading to her computer.
“1 new message.” Click.
The screen filled with a photo of Julie’s haggard face, eyes blackened, blood crusting her nose. It read, “End it now, or 40 will look like this.”
It was sent from her own address, dated December 11, 2021 - ten years from today.
Julie quickly composed an email.
“Subject: It’s over”