Micro Story: The Box

 

Don’t look at me like that.  I’m not a monster. I’m a salesman looking to make a profit. Same as you, I wake up every morning to the small cries of my children, feed them, and send them off to school in a big, yellow school bus with a 53 on its butt, not a common number but one that was my room number twice in college.  I know what a coincidence is.  I don’t need any refreshing.

I’m not a monster, I’m telling you.  Okay, okay, I’ll quit the appeal to you and tell you exactly what kind of business I’m in, the real meat of the matter.

I sell boxes, tiny boxes with a slip of paper inside.  Magic paper. Where did I get these boxes, you might ask?  

I went down to that city New Orleans, you know, the one that flooded a while ago.  A nice place, to be honest.  Have you been to the French Quarter?  Okay, okay, I know I’m getting off-topic.  I’ll get back to how I came to be this sort of salesman.

One of the Voodoo Queens took me into her shop, right?  She gave me a bag of these boxes, a tough bag made of leather, I think.  I grabbed a box and started to open it.  She slapped my hand hard and told me to never open a box, lest I want everyone to know my flaw.  

What flaw do I have, you ask? Well, I don’t know.  I keep the secret on top of the dresser, by the mirror, and it looks like the box holds two eyes there, gleaming at me in the way you do.  

I’m not a monster, I’m telling you.  

You want to know about the flaw and the box and what it means.  Yes, yes, I’m getting there. Have patience or don’t.  

The box holds our biggest flaw.  The woman you talk about, Sally, she bought a box from me.  I told her over and over to never open the box.  How can I help it if someone doesn’t listen.  No one can see your flaw when it is safely tucked into this box.  You might even have buried it so far in your mind that you don’t recognize it.  Sometimes silence and darkness and being a hidden creature is the biggest freedom for you or someone else. A flaw can stay contained but not when one questions, when one becomes curious, oh no.  

And that woman, well, she thought the box was cute and could be used in her Bible Study Class.  Who am I to ask questions? I do, I do, I do, but not when someone has cash. You’re the same, you know? You want money to feed those little mouths.  Nothing in life is free, right? Your flaw could be human curiosity, and it’s a killer.

You say they found the body?  Her family knows where she is then, no more mysteries. I’m becoming anxious, I can tell. My hands are shaking.

Ha ha, what was her flaw?  You want too much. You want to ask questions and stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, I know.  I know your kind and how they tie bows around boxes and give them to others at Christmas, to have the spirit of giving that everyone will see and know that Santa likes rich people more than poor people by the gifts he gives.  These boxes aren’t like that.  Everyone has a flaw, and we don’t want to see it.  People want to assume that they are better, in harmony within the moment. You can die, and fall over from a heart attack. 

Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.  Sally opened her box and found out that her biggest flaw was greed. She laughed it off, but when she went to her Bible Study group they saw her with fangs eating all of the donuts in the place, never replacing the creamer, and helping herself to charity’s money all so that she could put that pretty package under the tree with bows on it, and everyone would know how generous she was, how she cared.  

They told her to leave, you know? They tore the wrappers off as Sally cried out.  Her tongue got caught on her fangs and she screamed, running into the parking lot where a car hit her, so terrible.  The little box remained in her car, the words calling out to anyone.  

You don’t believe me, do you? You want a box, do you? You don’t believe me. You don’t know who you are or what the box can see, one made by a Voodoo queen.  Here you go, here you go, what is your biggest flaw that no one can see?  

Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a monster.

A Terrible Night With the Doctor

     The clock struck midnight.  Bree closed her eyes as the flashlight scanned her delicate body covered in wounds, a bit of gaze held back the drips of agony.  

No one truly saw them.  No one believed her, all of her words were lost in space.

The strange and unusual states of the patients at night, how they cried, how they said, “Nurse, help!” only to be stiff as a board the next day, unable to move but a waxed doll to place on machines, machines that didn’t care if they lived or died.  

The light withdrew like a phantom.  Bree wanted to grab it, to keep him back.  

Him?

Her voice choked, but she knew better than to make any noise at night.  The nurses failed to come to the aid of the patients, the screams! The screams!  Their slip-resistant shoes stopped making faint noises as they hit the floor, farther and farther away.  The keys turned and all went into the breakroom.  Bree wondered what conversations they shared.  The conspiracies grew wilder and wilder. 

Bree knew a scream might slip from her red lips.  

“You did this to yourself,” her dad told her, the last time he saw her two weeks ago.  She knew her place in the great white house had dwindled and would fade with her in a silent cemetery. Neither one of her parents could take the embarrassment of a self-harming teenager.  Those kinds of people, as her mother said when any deviation hit a person or a pack of unfortunate souls.

Well, she was that kind of person. Blood and bones go together.

A knocking sound and then a squeaking hinge greeted her ears.

She knew he would come.

Bree closed her eyes and tried to appear naturally asleep.  The man, the thing of abhorrent mystery, stood outside of her door. 

Her chest burned. Her lips trembled.  She wanted to cry but remained quiet as an exhausted dog, hoping to be too unimportant to mess around with..  

A beep came from the other side of the room and a raspy voice caused Bree’s pinky finger to move, “Who is on call tonight?” the thing asked.  

Nobody answered, just static.  The thing growled and came closer.  Bree took in slow, deep breaths.

The foul beast moved a few steps closer.  

Not me, Bree thought. Not me. 

A door opened down the hall.  Someone held keys and walked toward her.  The creature remained.  Bree felt the stare, felt the knife of her will failing futilely. 

“Oh Dr. Mite, you asked who was on call?”

“Yes, Hellen,” the being's voice still shook and quaked. Sorry, I have a bit of a cold.”  

Bree opened her twitching eyes, feeling safe and protected. She could be so silly at times.  Her friends told her not to be such a drama queen on one or more occasions.  

Open up, she commanded her mind.

Red eyes blinded her, and her body felt tense.  She shook and screamed.  Then all she could hear were the creature’s footsteps leaving the room.  

“Yes, those kinds of people,” the nurse said.

A Tear Apart

              The rocks crunch beneath my feet as gentle waves tap the shore.  My hand picks up a shell, white and black.  Once it held a muscle, and now it holds my attention. I wonder about the animal’s life, not knowing much about his type, her type. Do muscles come in male and female?  I admit to not knowing much about nature.  The trees laugh when the wind whispers this to them.

Tossing the muscle into the lake causes it to make a plop sound, small, almost indistinguishable from the noise of the animals around, of the lake in front of me, by the sky above me. 

Clouds pass by, and I think of their shapes, types of temporary constellations, I reason.  They come and go as does all life in the lake.  The fish swim underneath my gaze, a few of the braver minnows dare me to try to grab them. Their slick skin would ooze onto me faster than I could use my wits to surpass the fish’s body.  

Nature gives the world an abundance of creatures and creations, not all cute, not all fair.  I think of the giant catfish by the dam and shutter.  My grandpa told me this, and grandpa never lies.

The color of the water in the lake is tinged with green algae, mud, and other elements of mystery, stirred in a pot akin to a witch’s brew.  After I walk a few feet out to where the gars reside, I look down, unable to see much of my pale legs.  A fish here and a fish there nimble at the hair on my legs.  As a child, I’d cling to my grandpa when we swam, his legs covered with freckles and age spots.  He laughed with his small blue eyes, a chunk of ear missing due to cancer, and the whitest teeth an older person could hold, totally fake, of course.   

My grandpa passed in 2012 after a long life blessed with friends and family.  Up until the very end of his life, he could surpass me at arm wrestling.  I said I was going to beat him one day when he wrinkled like a tree’s bark and grew feeble.  I still lost.  This caused him great joy along with grandma.  As he lay on his deathbed, he told everyone what a wonderful wife he found and how they stayed together through all trials and troubles without fighting and fussing, carrying on, or being selfish.  My grandpa and grandma helped as many people as they could, always thinking of others before themselves.  

I look into the lake and see a rippled face go up and down.  Their faces don’t live in mine, as my father and his brother were adopted.  I feel the love of my grandparents in my heart, which rings truer than a false impression of love.

A fish jumps out of the water ahead of me, I turn my gaze and only see a ripple in the water.  I glance down at my arms, sunburned, and head up the hill by my apartment complex for some aloe.  

Released from my memory, I walk father and father away from the pond, sad and feeling lost in the present.  I cry a green, murky tear, reminding me of what is part of me, forever, I will love.