The Box

The Box:

Lark

There is a box on my table. Perfectly square with a thick strip of tape centered across it, tempting me to open it. I stare at the cardboard stranger and think to myself if I set it down before work, not thinking about it. But I hadn’t ordered anything. There are no labels on the box, only that dusty brown color on every square inch, no blemishes, post marks, or scratches in sight. A perfectly square box.

I move towards my cleaned off table, that I don’t remember tidying, to investigate. I draw near the smooth edge, my hands hovering just over the surface. The irrational part of me worries is something nefarious. A bomb, perhaps. I didn’t put the box there- that I know, no matter how much my brain tries to tell me otherwise. A laugh escaped my lips as I reach into my pocket to pull out my phone. I take a picture of the box and send it to my friend who is the only other person with a key to my fourth story apartment. That thought niggles on my brain as I give in to the urge to check the windows, which seems ridiculous and the whole time I tell myself just that as I meticulously check each lock is still in place. My door frame is unblemished with scratches, and the lock is intact. My gaze draws to the box, and I can’t help but feel silly at this trepidation that seems to grip me. I convince myself my friend put the box there, but I need confirmation. Just in case.

After no reply, I go about my nightly (morning) routine. Working third shift at a manufacturing plant gives little time to bask in the glow of the morning, most of it being spent asleep. Everything relating to the rest of the night is normal: lukewarm shower, loose pajamas, microwave meal. The small, yet simple, comforts. But tonight- that box is in the forefront of my mind. Creeping in and resting as I try to relax under the spray of the shower, my eyes constantly opening and my mind reeling for ideas. My pajamas feel too snug, almost suffocating as the fabric brushes against my legs that I wouldn’t normally notice. My microwave meal sits heavy in my stomach as the tv plays in the background, but my eyes are fixed on the box.

It nearly illuminates.

I think to myself. An offhanded thought that doesn’t quite make sense in the dim glow of the television screen, and rising light as dawn approaches. But I latch onto that observation. My eyes straining to watch my show and then quickly jumping to the box as if I expect it to disappear or move. Worse still, it does nothing. I can’t tell if my chuckle is one of relief or anxiety. Playing a game with the object on my table feels as odd as it sounds.

A buzz from my phone on the coffee table sends a jolt down my spine, my nerves starting to fray, though I can’t explain why. Almost like a feeling- being the one observed as much as being the one who observes.

I open my message, ignoring the feeling and simply deciding to want answers instead.

What box?

My message says.

Did the picture not send?

I scroll up and there it is. My picture of an empty table. I was sure I had sent a picture of the table with a box on it. Standing, I move to the table where the box was still in the same position it was in when I had discovered it. I line up my shot, making sure the box is in frame, and snap the picture. The image shows the box front and center on the table. I jam the send button and see it go into the chat.

No reply.

I stare at the screen, waiting for my friend to look at the picture. My teeth biting into my lip and hand raking through my hair. A creak sounds from down the hall and my body freezes, heart thundering as I have an insane thought that someone is in my house. I can’t seem to stop the panic that rises within, and the anger of someone sneaking in. Placing a box on my table and then hiding in wait. Like a thief in the night. This is probably just an elaborate ruse. With a frustrated huff, I put my phone down on the table and grab a broom nearest to me as my first line of defense. My feet are silent on the carpeted floor, each darkened room feels sinister as I jut the handle out and scan every nook and cranny in my living space. In the dining room, I wonder if my nerves had gotten the best of me. Perhaps I need to sleep and open the box in a few hours when my head is clearer. Placing the broom back in its corner, I turn to grab my phone hoping my friend messaged back. But only the smooth surface of the wooden table greets me. It’s shiny top blemished only by the square box presented on the table, my phone nowhere in sight.

I really must need sleep; being as forgetful as I. Around the table I look, under the table, on top of counters. Each room being ticked off my list as I thoroughly recheck every inch. In the couch cushions, flipping my pockets inside out, and opening cupboards I hadn’t touched. My mind is a tumult of emotions: anger, frustration, paranoia, fear. That trickling sensation crawling up my spine.

The box is watching.

An errant thought. Sinister. Farfetched. True.

Because that is the feeling. The hairs standing on end, heart thudding, chest constricting, mind racing.

A woozy feeling in my stomach and a single-minded focus to open that box. My hands shake at the thought. A single, simple act, nothing more than a sweeping motion and the task is complete. My hands grip a knife, a sharp blade reflecting my widened eyes.

So simple.

I approach the table, taking deep breaths in. Gently grazing the box with fingertips that feel threated to burn. The texture is rough, the scent grainy.

Just like every other cardboard box.

I think to myself as my knife slits the first seal on the box. I move to the other side and the blade glides through the plastic.

Just a box.

Just a box.

Just a box.

I grip the perfectly square box, preparing before biting the bullet the dragging the knife through the top layer of tape. With slow hands, I peel back each flap of the box. A simple motion. Grab, fold. Grab, fold. Grab, fold. Grab, fold.

Time slows as I lean forwards to see the contents of the perfect, square box.

My vision swims, as my world turns into darkness.

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“Test Subject 8502- reset trial number 399.”