Between Octobers

The Box

The Box

There's an uncomfortable tilt and pull. The vibrating scrapes start again beneath me then pause. After a minute, it starts again . . . and then stops. The cyclic tilt, scraping, and pause; it repeats over and over until I'm sure I'll go crazy. Finally, the raised end drops. The sound of metal knocks against the outside, stopping my heart.

That muffled clatter; the sound of a shovel scraping through dirt starts again. This time, it's loud and close.

"Things always work out, one way or another," Ronnie's reaction echoes in my head—his response when I told him what happened in Evan's hotel.  

"Grace, if you don't make moves, you'll never progress," Dr. Lena told me on more than one occasion.

If I surrender to the fear wanting to cripple me, no one will ever know. I take several deep breaths, determining to focus on what I need to do.

When the disjointed shoveling sound works back into a steady rhythm, I swallow the panic. Slowly, so slowly, I raise my torso, picking up my elbows, lifting my body, fitting my back into the square lid. It inches up in precise, controlled increments.

Desperate, shaking, I keep moving, lifting it higher.

Soon, it's open enough to see a pair of legs no more than a yard away. They are thin, slightly bent at the knees, and draped in black. I widen the gap. She's shoveling, heaping piles of dirt, and scanning the surroundings. But she faces the trees, not me.

Speedily now, and with more stealth than I naturally possess, I manage to hold the lip of the lid to keep it from dropping. I silently set the lid behind me, my box now resting completely open.

Slowly, so slowly, being careful not to disturb the noisy tarp, I work my way to my feet and take a good look around, hyperaware of the threat at my left. 

Maybe it's the fresh air or a surge of adrenaline, but my mind kicks into high gear, rapidly absorbing every detail with more clarity than I have had since I woke. It's late in the day. Near sunset. And there's no road, no buildings anywhere. Not even the hint of a trail to a road. Only the tracks of the vehicle that brought me here, crossing a wide field sprinkled with patches of brown and green. My Jeep sits off to the right. Drag marks stretch through the dirt from the open hatch to where I am.

To the south, surrounding my feet, is a camouflage trunk. Everything else is mountain and forest. I don't recognize anything.  

How long have I been gone? My head and shoulder throb in unison. 

My perpetrator, no more than a leap away, is smaller than the tyrant of my imagination.  Short, actually. No wonder she took me by surprise. Clad in what looks like all black, she's still working, furiously digging my grave. Her head is covered, concealing any indicators—no hair color or visible skin, but I have a sickening sense that I've seen her before. I think I know her but can't place her.   

My heart stops as she suddenly stands upright, glancing from one side to the other before bending back down to work. As she does, a dull reflection in the fading light catches my eye. I recognize the curved shape tucked into the back of her pants. She probably had it pointed at me when I was playing dead.

The scents of fresh earth and pine are strong. They clear the distractions from my head and I realize what I'm doing. Time is wasting. Opportunity is knocking. And I'm standing here like an idiot.

Go, a muted whisper speaks to my heart.