Boxed

Doran was a latchkey kid before it became popular, walking alone to and from school as though danger didn’t follow her everywhere. An only child, she grew accustomed to herself quickly. By the age of seven, many of her summer afternoons were spent twirling in circles until her brain became muddled with thoughts of her existence and who she truly was underneath her skin and bones. The dizzying thoughts she felt separate from her tiny body were a relief from feeling lonely. Always wanting to connect with what was inside, Doran embraced uncomfortable emotions, wondering if her soul was reaching out with messages meant to learn with time.

One room in her home had always been full of boxes with unknown contents and scattered clothes on the bed. Doran avoided the messy space, and whenever she was requested to enter the room to retrieve an item, she would suddenly no longer feel comfortable. Rather, her mind would become muddled and confused as goosebumps pushed against her skin. Words escaped her as well, hiding in the dark spaces no one could see unless they searched.

Her dad worked second shift at the hospital. The house seemed more settled when he wasn't nearby. Her mom cooked casseroles during the week and played Scrabble with her on Saturday afternoons. Doran talked to her dead dog in church on Sundays because it made her more comfortable than praying to someone she’d never met. When he was alive and old, her parents had taken Max to be put to sleep while Doran was in school learning to write words in cursive. From that day, she never felt she knew when it was truly time to say goodbye. Instead, Doran panicked at the thought of someone going away, even when it was her turn to leave.

Around the time of her dog’s passing, the lanai began accumulating clutter. Doran didn’t know where the items came from, but her friends noticed as well. There wasn’t nearly as much room to play and move around. Now, there were two places in her home which Doran avoided and her mind felt heavier with thoughts she didn’t want to feel. They quickly became a burden which often kept her awake at night.

 By the age of 10, Doran preferred the damp coolness of her Michigan basement. She would sit in the farthest room away from the stairs and search through neatly stacked boxes her parents never unpacked, yet, for some reason, took the time to store them properly.  It may have been the room or the interesting items she found, but Doran’s thoughts seemed crystal clear while there.   From time to time, she found letters written from her dad to her mom, espousing his dominance in unkind words, seemingly written to keep her making casseroles and cleaning toilets in between the hours of her job outside of the home. A few boxes contained Doran’s artwork. While she knew she’d never be an artist, she enjoyed the opportunity to create something from her mind. It felt like an opening to free her from the intrusive thoughts of the messes her parents were creating in other areas of the house.

From time to time, her parents would light candles and balance a Ouija board on their knees, leaning in until their foreheads nearly connected. Doran watched them, her thoughts hidden amongst the shadows she saw dancing on the wall alongside 'The Last Supper' painting hung in the dining area. They were never able to summon or communicate with anything which wasn't already felt by Doran in the darkness. Still, she looked carefully to ensure she would notice any new shapes slipping into her life.

Middle school surrounded Doran with loud strangers who spoke around her and sometimes through her, but rarely did they include her in conversations. She envied the pretty girls who had smiles which seemed genuine A deep but caring voice had begun seeping into her senses, providing comfort when she needed it, which was nearly all the time. At night, it would lull her into a sleep she could never any longer attain on her own.

Her parents told her puberty was playing tricks on her mind when Doran shared the voice coming through her skin and bones after a particularly frightening screaming match. They asked her if she liked girls and warned her to stop acting like she was queen of the world. Doran was too sad to tell them she thought very little of herself in most situations. She also avoided the conversation about the stairs which led to the second floor. They were becoming cluttered with items which had no true home. Doran became afraid of tripping and wondered why they were there if they truly did not belong. But her fear of continued arguments kept her curious mouth shut for days.

Eventually, Doran moved out and left more space for her parents to fill. Each time she visited, the home seemed smaller as more boxes and clothes were stacked from floor to ceiling. No room in the home was safe from chaos, and Doran’s visits became shorter and farther apart. Her requests to help were met with angry silence and turned heads. It hurt to be in the home. The voice, by this time, was too attached to Doran to stay in the messy rooms. Instead, it followed her like a puppy insisting it was in charge.

Her dad shot himself in the head in Doran's high school parking lot when she was an adult. He was unable to let go of any demons haunting him. Her mother posted on Doran's social media how Doran was to blame for her dad's suicide after her mom identified the body of the man she couldn’t let go of in their life together. By then, the voice inside Doran had taken over enough that the hurt felt like a bee sting in her upper thigh, where the fat masked most of the pain. She felt badly for the jogger who found her dad until the voice soothed Doran's skin and bones with thoughts of the love he provided. Only the voice knew he was all she would ever need. She never wanted to let it go.