Lawrence Buentello

In the Box

 

I’m in the box.

 

They keep me inside until they have a use for me.

 

It’s dark inside the box, completely black, and cool. There isn’t much room, but I don’t need much room. Certainly none of them could fit inside, but we are very different. For instance, when they mature, they attain a given height and weight, but I can make myself small, at times infinitesimally small, but when I’m outside of the box I can also make myself immense. They have uses for me in both sizes.

 

I stay quiet at all times, though I can utter terrible cries when motivated. I stay quiet so they’re always unsure. Perhaps if I’m very quiet, some stranger’s hand will open the box to see what’s inside. Then I’ll be free again, because they won’t know the words to stop me from leaving.

 

Once, a very long time ago, a child opened the box and peered inside. He didn’t see me, because I’d made myself small—he thought the box was empty. I watched his large, dark eyes as he looked inside perhaps hoping to find a beautiful toy, or candy. He shouldn’t have looked inside, he didn’t know the right words and I should have come out, but his eyes fascinated me, the way they looked at me without seeing. His eyes were full of innocence. When he closed the box, I immediately regretted not coming out, but I had been fascinated by his eyes and missed my chance. Now I have to hope another stranger comes.

 

They have special words that keep me in the box, and once I’ve been released, words that make me go back inside. I don’t want to go back inside; I want to remain free to do as I please and eat when I’m hungry and only become small when I’m tired and need to sleep. Why must I obey their words? I don’t really know, I only know that at one time I was free to do as I pleased, eat as I pleased. Now I’m in the box most of the time, and only come out when they speak their special words.

 

*

 

I have forgotten what I am. This is strange, because I know what they are, what they look like, how they move, what they believe. I only feel, and because I’m kept in the box, in the awful dark, I cannot see myself. I think that when I do see myself, in those rare times when I’m not in the box, I must not like what I see, because the moment they force me back into the box I forget what I saw, and I can’t remember, not in the dark.

 

Being trapped inside makes me angry. I am angry most of the time. I don’t tell them this, but I think they know. Whenever I come out of the box I’m so very, very angry, and whoever I find outside with me becomes the object of my anger. Then I grow large, and the sound that comes from me fills the world with my hatred. I wouldn’t be so hateful if I weren’t always inside the box, I wouldn’t feel so much anger and hatred. And it seems the moment I begin to lose my anger is the moment they speak their special words and force me back inside the box.

 

Why do they do this? Why do they torment me?

 

*

 

But I don’t need an answer now, because now I have a secret they know nothing about. All the dark days that have passed for me have left me the time to think about my imprisonment, and what I must do to free myself. Many years have passed, but now I know what I must do. I must find a way to deafen myself to their words, I must fold myself in a way that keeps me from hearing what they have to say. If I cannot hear their special words, then I won’t have to return to the box. I have practiced folding myself over and over again until the sounds of the room completely disappear. If I cannot hear the sounds beyond the box, I also won’t be able to hear their words.

 

The next time they open the box I will fold myself into a shape that will deafen me and they will not be able to force me back into the shadows. They won’t—

 

*

 

Now I hear footsteps in the room, walking toward me. I hear the sound of someone’s hand touching the box’s lid—are they here to free me? Are they here to free me again, only to force me back inside the darkness?

 

Often, when they come to release me, I hear them laughing, and I know they’re laughing because they enjoy watching me become angry at whoever they choose to unleash me upon. When they speak their special words they laugh again, because they know I will have to return to the box.

 

I feel one of them lifting the box and carrying it to wherever they wish to unleash me. I hear them laughing again, because they will unleash me and enjoy my wrath as it falls on those without special words. It’s all right, because I’ll wait patiently, quietly. But the moment they open the lid I will move into the air and fold myself. I’ll not hear their special words. I won’t. I will be free to do as I please.

 

Then they’d better run—because I have a special, a very, very special hatred for them.

 

 

Lawrence Buentello’s fiction has appeared in many publications, including Hypnos, Weirdbook, Bete Noire, and Murky Depths.