flash fiction

Whenever I try to follow the dotted line, I get lost somewhere between the dots. The shortest distance between point A and point B isn't a straight line when there's a chasm between them. I always end up falling somewhere around step three. Sometimes I'll make it to five if I'm lucky. Sometimes.

The box has gotten a bit dusty over the past three weeks. I cleaned up my apartment today, which meant I had to notice it. Not that I don't notice it anyway, sitting in the living room next to the fireplace. Sitting there. Collecting dust apparently.

I don't know what's in it. Nothing special I'm sure. At this point it's become the Pulp Fiction briefcase. Whatever's inside could never live up to the hype. So I let it sit there, don't even touch it. It's just an ordinary box: four walls and a roof, taped up with blue masking tape she brought home from her job. It's gained a life of its own now. Some mornings I make an extra bowl of Fruity Pebbles in case the box decides it's hungry.

Part of me wonders if maybe she left it on purpose. She hasn't asked for it. Not that we've talked. She's come online a couple of times from her parents' house, but she hasn't said a word to me. I'm afraid to break the silence. She cleaned out every other trace of herself while I was gone to work, even vacuumed her hair out of the carpet.

Maybe she wants me to open it. Maybe what's inside is important. It's a burmese python patiently waiting to end my life. It's pictures of her sleeping with all my friends. It's the teddy bear I bought her on Valentine's Day with a note saying she'll always love me.

I've never been this sentimental, so pathetically tied to my emotions. I should just leave it on her parents' doorstep. It's just some pots and pans or old sweat shirts. It's not important. It doesn't have power. It's just a box.

I'm watching one of those shows on E!, one of those "look how rich and better than you celebrites are" shows, the ones that make me sad to be American. The box is right there. Ten feet away. Five steps. I should throw it in the dumpster, take it to the country and burn it, cut it to shreds with a chainsaw. But I'll let it stay here for now. Maybe I'll use the box as a bridge to connect the dots, a raft to sail down the river at the bottom of this canyon. Maybe it's part of the metaphor, some sort of symbol for something. I so wanted to make it to step six this time, but my cardboard friend and I are stuck here at five.