“Out of The Box Thinking”: Musings of Inmate 66

We lost another member of the community this morning. 

And I don't know how much longer I might have. 

You see, we’d been here a good long time before the disappearances started. Things were quiet, and everyone was watching out for each other. We had a good thing going, all things considered. 

Then, one day, two of our group members were gone. In a split second, they just vanished. According to the rumor mill, there was no warning. It was as if the ceiling just opened, and something extracted them. Others in the group started trying to piece together what had happened and if it could have been avoided. But at the time, down where I was residing, it didn’t seem like anything I needed to worry about. 

After that, things calmed back down a bit here in The Box. We would hear about one, maybe two, being taken here and there, and sometimes we’d go weeks without hearing of incidents. I still didn’t understand why, but we were growing to accept it as an environmental hazard. 

But one day last December, the toll on the community was grisly; over twenty of us disappeared in one day. That was a little over a quarter of our population just gone. They had vanished into thin air, and we had no clue where they ended up. 

The shock it sent through the community was palpable. Even a guy like me located in the lower levels couldn’t ignore it anymore. Whatever it was, it was coming for each of us — one by one.

Over time, the trauma of December started to fade away, and we were returning to some semblance of normalcy. Not only did we feel more secure, but we were learning how to support each other better. 

Of course, we still have to listen to the rants of the paranoid ones in The Box. Rain or shine, they are always in a panic, spewing distorted facts that we will never know which of us will be taken. 

“We’ll never know when or where,” they like to say. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re down towards the bottom of The Box. By the time the information does make it to you, it’s all bent, broken, and twisted, and you are forced to piece it together into something that makes sense. 

But their proclamations are hogwash. We know it will not be just any of us; we know precisely who will be next. It’s always one of the inmates on the level above us. Always someone from the ‘Above’. 

But why are they the ones being taken?

Is it because those in the ‘Above’ are easy prey from being fully exposed, like a young rabbit leaping through open pasture, destined to become a quick snack for a vigilant hawk? 

Or is it because they are the worst of the pack, like the scummy foam that forms on a boiling soup that needs to be skimmed off? 

At this point, it doesn’t really matter because here I am, smack dab in the middle of the stack, halfway between the bottom and the ‘Above’, and not sure if, or when, my number, 66, will be called.

Up until this morning, it had been seventy-two days without as much as a sneeze disrupting our tranquil surroundings. But now, the thirteen of us who remain are huddled together, preparing for what might lie ahead. 

I know it was just one guy that was taken, nothing like December, but I’m not just some dude way back in the pack anymore. I’m within striking distance.

The guy just ahead of me, the one I call Softie, thinks it’ll be smooth sailing once someone leaves The Box. It’s like they are just entering a new phase of life, like we’ll be starting a work-study program where they teach us how to be a janitor or some bullshit.

What a dumbass.

I shouldn’t be critical, I mean, he’s still a dumbass, but he does have some basis for his belief. During another stretch of peaceful solitude in August, the ‘Above’ residents saw something they would never forget. They watched in disbelief as Inmate 17 was yanked from his spot in The Box, only to be immediately returned. 

Everyone in The Box knows that no one ever returns from the outside; that’s not how it works. Once you’re gone, you’re gone, never to be heard from again. That’s how it is supposed to go. But not for Inmate 17; he was given a second chance that day. And he was a changed person after it happened.

Of course, his second chance only lasted a couple of minutes, but it was long enough for rumors to spread like wildfire through the population. You see, Inmate 17 claimed he had ‘seen the light’ while outside. 

Now, I suspected his statement about seeing the light was a metaphor, something to enlighten those who were still within the confines of The Box. The light could have been the light at the end of the tunnel, the way out potentially, or that light was coming from an oncoming train. Not ever being close to 17, I had no way of knowing what he meant.

Sadly, the ones who might have known what 17 meant, Inmates 18 and 19, followed him into the great beyond within seconds of his departure, and the real meaning of the statement was lost to the world forever.

Of course, old Softie attributed the dearly departed’s statement as proof that life after The Box was something to look forward to and that we shouldn’t fear what was coming. 

Well, good for you, Softie. We’ll be learning soon enough as we keep inching closer to the ‘Above’ ourselves. And since you’ll be going before me, keep me posted on how that turns out. I, on the other hand, will keep trying to figure a way out of this.

I tried to find my own answers as to what could cause an inmate to be returned like that. If there were even the slightest chance that we could repeat what he did and slow or even stop these disappearances, it would at least give us a chance to live out our remaining days in tranquility.

On the not-so-positive side of things, we also heard rumors that sometimes inmates would get hung up on the way out, teetering between this world and the next. I figured they had just gummed up the proverbial machine and were waiting until someone cleaned their disintegrated tissue from between the gears.  

Softie hated that visual. He pretended that in those situations, the wedged victim was getting to make a choice. They were stuck in limbo until they decided what job they would take: be that janitor or maybe a teacher’s aide. There he goes with the job stuff again, what did he know that I didn’t?

There went another one. Inmate 60. Whoosh, gone.

Damn it. 

I thought I’d have more time. It took a solid month for them to get through the 50s. 

61 didn’t even have time to react before he was whisked away. 

Whoosh.

Now 62 is gone.

We can’t have a repeat of December. That would be the end of us, literally the last of us. 

And now 63! 

What the hell is happening?

I told Softie that I hoped they would just shut down this place once we had all been ‘disappeared.’  

“You mean rehabilitated,” my neighbor on the other side corrected. “Phrase things in the positive, my friend; it will make you feel better.” That was Puffy T.’s way of dealing with this hell hole: convincing himself that there was something to look forward to beyond this place. I wish I had his optimism. He lays around all day, advising all within range on how to be more sensitive and maintain a positive outlook. 

“Pay close attention to their faces and watch their expression to know how to react.” “Be strong, but realize it’s okay to fall apart. We all have our limits.”

Like the rest of us, Puffy was a veteran of the final Boreal War. Before we were pulled from our communities into battle, we were peaceful, silent giants, stewards of our lands with families to protect. 

It was shortly after the war began that we heard that Puffy’s lifelong companion fell while in the forest one evening and broke a limb; no one heard her calls for help, and she passed from the trauma. Puffy could never forgive himself for not being there and internalized his sorrow as falling apart wasn’t an option for a warrior.

After the war ended and we were selected by The Group, we were further beaten into submission, reshaped and reformed, to emerge as soldiers for their cause. That was the last we saw of the old Puffy as he completely broke down after processing. Nowadays, he preaches to his captive audience about being mellow and easygoing, having completely forgotten how to fight.

The rest of us, imprisoned beside him in this tight space, lie waiting but still not knowing, for what purpose.  

We just lost Inmate 64. 

Looks like today is the day. The ‘Above’ is here.

I can hear Softie saying his goodbyes again. It’s a ritual he has repeated daily since the event last December. At least he lived every day as if it were his last and got the most out of them. No matter what happens when he leaves The Box, at least he gave it his all every day. 

I envy that dumbass. 

It was finally Softie’s time. As his final move, he grabbed me so I could join him in his new life. I clung to Puffy to resist, and all three of us were suspended in midair. 

I could have sworn I heard Softie say as he disappeared into the ether overhead, “It’s so beautiful out here. It’s going to be okay 66!”

It was at that moment that I realized that Softie was right. It has to be better outside. There was nothing left for me in here anyhow. And with one gentle tug, Softie was gone.

Somehow, I was spared, tumbling down to the surface below. 

I can hear Puffy T. sharing more of his sage advice to his nearby followers, “Be strong but always be soft. Your purpose will be fulfilled in time.”

I waited, expecting my time was now, but maybe this wasn’t my day after all. Maybe I’ve got a little more time to get my plans in order, to prepare for what might lie beyond, and to think more about my purpose.  

I thought more about how Softie was convinced we would have a new purpose on the outside. Maybe he was right. And this is the first time, in as long as I can remember, that I felt hopeful. 

It was then I heard Puffy say, “Just remember, as a facial tissue, your job is to be strong, but soft. And after you slow the strongest sneeze, catch those oncoming goobers with pride.” 

Say what?