Scene from a Box

My headache is back—blood pounding through constricted veins. I leave the pen and notebook on the table and stand up. I take a flashlight from the top of the refrigerator and walk down the hallway to the bedroom.

The room is empty except for a single throw rug. The walls are bare—no curtains or shades cover the windows—glass panes all painted black. I bend down and slide the rug aside. I lift the trapdoor and step down.

The cellar is damp and smells of mold. As I make my way across the room, I use my flashlight to scan every corner of the concrete chamber.

Outside, the night birds are crying.

When I get to my mattress, I kneel down and roll onto my back. I slide the .45 out of the holster and lay it on my chest. The weight is reassuring. I switch off the flashlight and close my eyes.

Far away, pinpoints of light come and go. My mind cannot hold them steady—little doors opening and closing—vague reflections of half-remembered places—clean, well-lit spaces that I can imagine, but never know.

The flickering fragments drift away. They are frail and will not last the night.