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The Box
**This short story is included in the collection Bedtime Stories For The Damned**
The police came calling on Dr. Gordon the day after his patient was found dead, locked in a safe. The only item the dead man had in the safe was a journal.
A journal that contained a plea for help, along with a dark secret from the man’s childhood.
Descriptions are silly. Here's a
“Come in, come in,” Dr. Gordon opened his door wide for Timothy to enter.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Gordon,” Timothy said as he walked into the room. Running a hand through his matted hair, Timothy took a seat on the black leather couch. It sagged a little in the middle, but that was okay. His shoulders hunched forward and he seemed to shrink into himself a bit.
“My door is always open, and please, call me Jonathan,” Dr. Gordon said. He looked at Timothy’s hunched form and frowned. Closing the door behind him, Jonathan took the black leather chair opposite the couch. It was his favorite time of day. The light always came in through the blinds just right so that he didn’t need to turn on a light to make notes.
“I know,” Timothy said, his voice barely coming out of his mouth. “It’s just-”
“It’s just what?” Jonathan asked, pulling out a notepad and flipping the cover.
He looked around for his pen.
“I... I just don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Timothy said.
Jonathan found his pen in his left coat pocket and scrawled out a few notes.
Agitated.
Drawn into self.
Cause?
“You’re not an inconvenience at all,” Jonathan said, using his best soothing voice, the one that had brought in and kept so many clients (never patients, because it was best for the client to believe that they were in control) over the years.
Timothy stared at the carpet between the couch and the chair Jonathan sat in.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Timothy?”
The hunched man looked up at him, but Jonathan could tell he was actually looking over his left ear. It was a classic coping mechanism of the introverted.
Jonathan spoke, choosing his words with care. “Can you tell me a little about why you’re here today?”
“I don’t understand,” Timothy said, monotone.
“You don’t understand?”
Timothy shook his head no.
“What don’t you understand?” Jonathan asked.
Timothy whispered something under his breath.
“I didn’t catch that,” Jonathan said.
Timothy spoke a tiny bit louder. “The box.”
“The box? Did I hear you correctly?”
“Yes.”
“What is the box?”
Timothy looked side to side before speaking. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
The police came calling on Dr. Gordon the day after his patient was found dead, locked in a safe. The only item the dead man had in the safe was a journal.
A journal that contained a plea for help, along with a dark secret from the man’s childhood.
Descriptions are silly. Here's a
“Come in, come in,” Dr. Gordon opened his door wide for Timothy to enter.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Gordon,” Timothy said as he walked into the room. Running a hand through his matted hair, Timothy took a seat on the black leather couch. It sagged a little in the middle, but that was okay. His shoulders hunched forward and he seemed to shrink into himself a bit.
“My door is always open, and please, call me Jonathan,” Dr. Gordon said. He looked at Timothy’s hunched form and frowned. Closing the door behind him, Jonathan took the black leather chair opposite the couch. It was his favorite time of day. The light always came in through the blinds just right so that he didn’t need to turn on a light to make notes.
“I know,” Timothy said, his voice barely coming out of his mouth. “It’s just-”
“It’s just what?” Jonathan asked, pulling out a notepad and flipping the cover.
He looked around for his pen.
“I... I just don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Timothy said.
Jonathan found his pen in his left coat pocket and scrawled out a few notes.
Agitated.
Drawn into self.
Cause?
“You’re not an inconvenience at all,” Jonathan said, using his best soothing voice, the one that had brought in and kept so many clients (never patients, because it was best for the client to believe that they were in control) over the years.
Timothy stared at the carpet between the couch and the chair Jonathan sat in.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Timothy?”
The hunched man looked up at him, but Jonathan could tell he was actually looking over his left ear. It was a classic coping mechanism of the introverted.
Jonathan spoke, choosing his words with care. “Can you tell me a little about why you’re here today?”
“I don’t understand,” Timothy said, monotone.
“You don’t understand?”
Timothy shook his head no.
“What don’t you understand?” Jonathan asked.
Timothy whispered something under his breath.
“I didn’t catch that,” Jonathan said.
Timothy spoke a tiny bit louder. “The box.”
“The box? Did I hear you correctly?”
“Yes.”
“What is the box?”
Timothy looked side to side before speaking. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
71 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 26, 2012
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