Fiction / Ben Nunn

 

:: I Need To Write, So Here Goes. ::

            I have always lived in a box. And so has she. Our box­es are made of wood and they aren’t tall enough for us to stand in, but we can sit criss-cross-apple­sauce or lie on our sides. In the win­ter, spi­ders will often tuck them­selves into the cor­ners. They sit in their lit­tle webs and wait out the cold. On the wood­en floor, I can see the sub­tle impres­sion of where I sleep. It’s a small, faint oval.

            There is a rec­tan­gu­lar slit in both of our box­es, about the size of my two fists. Through it, I can see her box and she can see mine. It’s always been that way.

            The chasm between our box­es is just a bit longer than two out­stretched, reach­ing arms. In the spring, lush grass­es and tiny pur­ple flow­ers spread across it. It’s a tan waste­land of dead grass in the sum­mer, an ocean of orange and brown leaves in the autumn, and a gen­tle storm of snow in the win­ter until the spring melts it away. Every cycle of sea­sons it is like this.

            Food grows from our box­es’ wood­en ceil­ings. It begins each morn­ing as lit­tle green hairs, wisps of vines sprout­ing above our heads, always a mys­tery what it will grow into. And grow it does, excep­tion­al­ly quick. By the time the sun is halfway through the sky, fruits or pota­toes or sliv­ers of bread are dan­gling at our eyes. She likes to show off what­ev­er she gets. Her eyes will bright­en, and she’ll stick out her pear, or a hand­ful of dough­nut holes through her slit. I’ll laugh and show her mine.

            Along with new food, every morn­ing a new object appears in our box. Always in the back-left cor­ner. What­ev­er I get that day (a hand­bag, a heart pin, alu­minum foil, an emp­ty pill bot­tle) I will place in the cor­ner at night and the next morn­ing a new item replaces it. Same for her, of course. The stick of coal I’m using now came today, and I’m hunched over using my wood­en walls to write this on. I am thank­ful for this lit­tle piece of coal. I need to explain this strange feel­ing to myself, to wrap my head around every­thing. I’ll get there.

            I’m not sure what she’s doing as I’m writ­ing this; I chose the wall left of the slit so that I couldn’t see her and she couldn’t see me. Most days (most days before Yes­ter­day that is) we would just stare at each oth­er. Her eyes are wide and brown and full of curios­i­ty, always glis­ten­ing in the sun (even in cloudy weath­er, there is a mag­ic there). The slit frames them so per­fect­ly, two brown plan­ets trapped in that lit­tle win­dow. When I look at her she doesn’t look away; when she looks, I can’t.

            In the days before Yes­ter­day, I would imag­ine what her shoul­ders or her knees were like beyond that slit win­dow. Were her legs scrunched up like mine were? Her hair was often what I thought about more than any­thing else. She had shown me once, on the Per­fect Day.

            It was weeks ago, in the begin­ning of win­ter. It had been snowing.

            The box had giv­en us both coats to wear that day. That moment alone makes me want to believe in some­thing divine. We were cozy, pulling tight­ly on our coats, just lazi­ly observ­ing each oth­er’s eyes. Then, and I still don’t know why, she had moved a brown stream of her hair through her fin­gers and let it tum­ble out of the slit. It fell in a wavy sort of way, loose yet com­posed. It had a shine of oil. Snowflakes would land in it, and melt into brown lushness.

            She could only fit one eye through the open­ing along with her hair. I crossed my legs, rest­ed my fore­head against the wall, and just stared out. I felt com­plete. It’s dis­tress­ing to think about this now, but it was Per­fect then.

            That was a while ago. We would look out towards each oth­er, find­ing the other’s eyes through the snow, but less often after that day. It had only got­ten cold­er, and we didn’t get any more coats. I had only enough ener­gy to shiv­er in the far cor­ner of my box, mess­ing idly with what­ev­er object I received that day. I’m a bit ashamed but while wait­ing the cold days away I thought about lit­tle else but her. I wish I knew what she was think­ing right now.

            It was snow­ing Yes­ter­day when every­thing changed, but I can’t talk about that yet.

            I think I have to explain the Crea­ture Day. There is a con­nec­tion there that I have to understand.

            The Crea­ture Day was months ago, dur­ing autumn. I had wok­en up to a new sound. It was a sub­tle crunch­ing of leaves, soft­er than hail, loud­er than a squir­rel. We had seen plen­ty of squir­rels in our time, me and her. We’d watch them find an acorn and gal­lant­ly hop away to hide it. They were too qui­et to ever wake me like this.

            I peeked through my slit. The morn­ing out­side was still blue, bare­ly warm­ing up. She was already awake, star­ing intense­ly at our new com­pan­ion. Birds would land, squawk, and fly away. A whole world of insects and bugs would accom­pa­ny us through­out the sea­sons. We even saw a fox once. This thing, this hulk­ing crea­ture, was noth­ing like that. It was mas­sive and yet had a frail majesty to it. Atop its head was a crown of antlers much larg­er than any deer we had seen before. I had to get on my stom­ach and peer up through the slit just to see the top of it. It had come from the for­est to our right and was in our clear­ing nestling its head through the leaves.

            She stared at it and I did too. It didn’t care about our box­es or our stares. It just brushed its way around the leaves, care­ful­ly bend­ing its giant frame down to nib­ble at the grass under­neath. I snuck my eyes away from the crea­ture for a moment and focused on hers. She did the same. We were both in this realm of pure won­der togeth­er. It was just the two of us, com­plete­ly ensnared by this beau­ti­ful creature.

            That was the Crea­ture Day. I think it’s impor­tant to what hap­pened Yes­ter­day because it was the com­plete oppo­site feel­ing. Yes­ter­day we were again ensnared, but it was by hor­ror instead of won­der, a red rope instead of a creature.

            Yes­ter­day, it was snow­ing, but it was warmer than usu­al. That morn­ing my new object appeared; it looked like a toy. There was an orange han­dle that you could squeeze and at the end of a short rod was the head of a green ani­mal that I did­n’t rec­og­nize. When I squeezed the han­dle, the ani­mal’s mouth shut. Open, shut, open, shut. I care­ful­ly maneu­vered it through the slit to show her. We’d often do this, mere­ly out of curios­i­ty. Open, shut, open, shut. Her eyes were amused, watch­ing. I don’t think she knew the ani­mal either.

            I was ner­vous to do it; I didn’t often play the fool. Yet, when some lazy snowflakes float­ed down between us, I swooped my lit­tle green ani­mal at them. I squeezed the han­dle and the ani­mal ate a snowflake. Quick­ly I looked over to see, and thank­ful­ly, I saw her eyes full of excite­ment. I did it again. Then again, swing­ing my lit­tle ani­mal all over the sky between us, catch­ing snow to her amusement.

            I didn’t want to push my luck so I even­tu­al­ly tucked my toy back inside my box. When I did, her eyes dis­ap­peared for a moment before return­ing. Then, from her box’s slit, her fin­gers dan­gled out her object of the day: a thin red rope. It is because of this rope that I am writ­ing, it is why I feel this strange way.

            It was long and apple-red. It was prob­a­bly as long as I am tall, maybe longer.

            I think because I was so play­ful, she want­ed to rec­i­p­ro­cate. Her wrists were bare­ly able to fit through the slit, yet, in that same jol­ly spir­it, she was able to sling that rope around and around and around. It flung snow from the ground and smacked snowflakes in the air. I gig­gled. It was­n’t fun­ny per se, but I don’t think some­thing needs to be fun­ny to laugh.

            It felt like anoth­er Per­fect Day.

            Then it hap­pened. She swung the rope in such a way, with such force, that the tip of it, the frayed red hairs, touched the out­side of my box. It stayed there, in the snow, limp. Some­thing in my stom­ach began to churn. It took me only a few sec­onds to under­stand, star­ing at the red rope that was graz­ing my box, the rope that began way over in her fin­gers: we were touch­ing! We were touching.

            There had always been a chasm between us and now there was a bridge.

            All the time I spent imag­in­ing her, shiv­er­ing in my box, star­ing at the spi­ders in my cor­ners, seemed to lead to this. I think that’s why I have this feel­ing. It’s in my chest. It’s some­thing angry, some­thing frag­ile. It’s her.

            I’m not sure what that means, but it felt right to write. I have to keep going.

            It got worse, and it’s my fault. It’s entire­ly my fault.

            My arms are much thin­ner than hers and can reach through the slit fur­ther, almost until my shoul­der.  I could reach the rope down on the snow if I want­ed to.

            I had want­ed to and I wish I hadn’t.

            I stuck my fin­gers out first. I avoid­ed her eyes. My fore­arm was then out into the frigid air. My shoul­der was jam­ming against the slit, my out­stretched fin­gers twirling around the frayed ends of the rope below. But I was able to grab it, and with a sud­den ter­ror, I lift­ed the red rope off the snow and into the air.

            My heart is nor­mal­ly quite calm in my chest, but I remem­ber it slam­ming, rup­tur­ing with a for­eign feel­ing as I stared down the length of the rope. My fin­gers, our fin­gers, hold­ing up the long red rope in a taut line. I fol­lowed it with my eyes until I met hers. Her beau­ti­ful brown eyes were full of fear. Where the Crea­ture was a mag­i­cal con­nec­tion between us, that rope was a hor­rid, all-too-real one.

            I remem­ber think­ing: I could pull on the rope. This red-hot feel­ing want­ed to pull, to get clos­er, to see how the brown of her eyes melt­ed into the black of her pupils, to see if she had the same lit­tle rash­es across her skin as I do, to reach out and feel her hair…

            At the same moment, I want­ed to cry. I felt it change. The mag­ic of our lit­tle world was gone; I could pull her and she could pull me.

            What was she think­ing at that moment? I would have giv­en up my dai­ly objects for­ev­er just to know. But I think I know, and that’s why I feel this way right now.

            She dropped the rope first, and I imme­di­ate­ly fol­lowed. It fell onto the snow, dead, and out of reach from both of us. She van­ished inside of her box.

            I felt child­ish. Every­thing before that moment was igno­rant inno­cence. Of course, we would nev­er live our whole lives with­out fac­ing each oth­er, real­ly fac­ing each oth­er. But that bridge has been burned for­ev­er and I’m going to rot. I’m going to rot away alone! I’m going crazy. Why did it feel so hor­ren­dous­ly wrong to hold that rope, to think about pulling her closer?

            I’m los­ing my con­trol, my lan­guage. Spew­ing like this doesn’t help me any. Let me regain composure.

            That was Yes­ter­day and that feel­ing has­n’t left me. Nei­ther has the rope. It didn’t dis­ap­pear this morn­ing like the objects always do; that scar­let line across the snow was still there when I woke up. My ani­mal toy, care­ful­ly placed in the back left cor­ner, was gone and this coal had arrived.

            The morn­ing had just become orange when I looked out­side; the slit in her box was dark and vacant. Her box seemed some­how clos­er than it had been.

            I say ‘woke up’ but I nev­er real­ly went to sleep. I kept imag­in­ing all night what it would be like if we didn’t let go, if we pulled each oth­er togeth­er. Per­haps I would have pulled a lit­tle clos­er, then she would have, then me, then her until our box­es were pressed against each other.

            Would she have hat­ed me once she real­ly saw my eyes, my face? Would she shrink away into the cor­ner of her box and I into mine?

            Or would we have, I don’t know. I won­der what her fin­gers feel like. That’s a thought I’ve nev­er had before and now I can’t get it out of my mind. She got a lit­tle bot­tle of skin cream a few sea­sons ago. I think she used it. I bet her fin­gers would feel soft.

            I’m on my stom­ach right now, writ­ing in the final mar­gin of this wall. I hope she can’t see me. I need to take a break and switch walls, my wrist hurts, my chest hurts. I’ll start again soon

.

*

 

            She still has not shown her eyes today. I look after almost every sen­tence, and each time I regret it. My chest feels like an emp­ty box. I keep say­ing chest but I mean heart, I think. She has a box in my heart and it’s vacant and full of cold spiders.

            The world taunts me. A blue­ber­ry muf­fin has grown for me today. I plucked it from the ceil­ing vines and its sweet smell was nau­se­at­ing. She nev­er told me those were her favorites but I knew. I know what the sparkle in her eyes meant on the days when she showed me a blue­ber­ry muf­fin out of her lit­tle win­dow. I don’t want to eat it.

            I began writ­ing so that I may hope­ful­ly under­stand myself bet­ter, to put words to this swirling feel­ing. And I know what it is. It’s just her. It always has been. It’s half of my heart, my soul writhing in regret for not pulling on that rope, to get clos­er. It’s the oth­er half in a com­plete spi­ral of ter­ror and anger over what I have ruined, of what could have been.  I thought under­stand­ing would give me peace, but I, wait-

            There she is!

            What I just watched has made this wal­low­ing despair worse. Her wide wrist, moments ago, stuck out through her slit, her fin­gers reach­ing for the rope below. She was painful­ly far away. She could not reach the rope as I had done ear­li­er. Her wrist snaked back inside her box, defeated.

            I feel defeat­ed! I’m scratch­ing my skin with my left hand as I write with my right. It’s a ter­ri­ble habit that I thought I left behind. She will nev­er get anoth­er item as long as the rope lays out­side her box. And that is because of me.

            I just tried to reach for it too. My fin­gers could scrape the snow, but the rope had bent away from me when I dropped it. Anoth­er inch and maybe I could have grabbed it, then some­how tossed it back to her.

But I couldn’t and she didn’t look.

            I miss the days, the beau­ti­ful days of just watch­ing each oth­er. I’m hun­gry, I’m starv­ing but I will not eat this cursed muf­fin. I don’t even know why I am writ­ing this; it will all be gone by tomor­row morn­ing. I don’t have the ener­gy any­more to write or think and I’m tear­ing at my skin and my chest is shak­ing in piti­ful breaths.

             The Crea­ture and her hair on Per­fect day is all I want to think about, but it feels wrong to, it feels gross. It’s near­ly night­fall now and the coal is just a peb­ble between my thumb and fin­ger. I think I feel worse than before. This has not helped me. Per­haps what­ev­er I get tomor­row will.

From the writer

 

:: Account ::

            I love love. It’s a beau­ti­ful­ly human thing and impos­si­ble to prop­er­ly define. As I began to write this sto­ry, I was begin­ning a new rela­tion­ship, and strug­gling with what love feels like. Should love be an obses­sion? At what cost, then? Is it wrong for love to be so man­ic and with­out rea­son? And what does it feel like to not be feel­ing the right things? I didn’t find these answers, but the man in the box is my explo­ration. I want­ed to block out every­thing in our world and put this man and his feel­ings in the sim­plest set­ting pos­si­ble. Per­haps then his inse­cu­ri­ties (which of course were my own) could find space to feel them­selves out.

            I didn’t want to “solve” this prob­lem with­in this sto­ry. Being in a rela­tion­ship is not always a table on four steady legs, but is more a long and uncer­tain process. I wished to cap­ture just a glimpse of that process between the man and woman and no more!

Ben Nunn is a stu­dent at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Texas at Austin, study­ing film and cre­ative writ­ing. He’s worked under best­selling authors who’ve taught him to write suc­cinct­ly and pow­er­ful­ly. He enjoys focus­ing his sto­ries on the absurd and the outcast.