Fruit Box

Fruit Box: A short story

I was slouching on the lumpy couch at home, alone, when the doorbell began to ring, it's lifeless chime echoing through the house. But I couldn't see who this visitor was, my parents forbid me from doing so. Even if it was a friend of theirs, or mine, the door had to remain locked until my parents returned. So I sat there watching TV, flipping from channel to channel to find something that would actually intrigue me. I stopped on the HBO station where the Movie "Jaws" was playing, it wasn't my favorite but it was better than anything else on. I got to the part where Martin found the decapitated head of the girl on the beach when the doorbell rang again, and again... and again. I was confused by this, I mean yes it was obviously odd but why would someone be frantically ringing my doorbell. But then again what if they were in trouble? What if they were being chased by a killer? Or was this just some silly old prank?
As my mind ran through the possibilities of what was happening I hardly noticed that the chimes of the doorbell had stopped. For a second I was relieved by this but became worried again. The doorbell's  light-hearted jingle had been replaced with hard beating knocks. I was surprised that the door was still holding because the door was like a curtain glued, nailed, taped or stapled to a little square and someone kept pushing their weight against it. Goosebumps formed on my arms and my blood ran cold, what if this wasn't someone in danger? Could there be a killer at my doorstep? I quietly crept to the curtains with the TV still blaring.  Quietly I lifted a piece of cloth of the curtain and as soon as I did, the knocking had stopped and nobody was in sight, as if it was a ghost. But it couldn't be because just barely on our concrete porch was a small cardboard box placed neatly on our welcome mat.
I made sure the coast was clear, looking in all directions to the outside and hesitantly, quietly, opened the door, half-thinking there was someone outside waiting for me but there wasn't a soul in sight. So I scooped up the small box and carried it to the kitchen, I rummaged through my pockets until I pulled out a tiny silver pocket knife that was sharp as stone but thin as paper and practically tore the tape right off.  As I opened it the room seemed to fill with nature's scent of fruit, inside were these lushish red-golden apples and golden pears that would dazzle the eye. Violet grapes filled the corners and oranges that were, perfectly orange filled in the edges. Bananas that looked like boomerangs and yellow as dandelions were underneath them (grapes and oranges). Finally in the center of it all was the biggest, ripest  grapefruit in the world. It had to be at least the size of a kids soccer ball. Even though these were delectable fruits this confused me. Who would repeatedly ring the doorbell to the point would break and knock on the door like a mad man to give me, fruit?
I stared at the box as if deciphering a math problem (I'm pretty horrible at math) so hard that if it were a math equation, Stephen Hawking couldn't even solve it. I don't know how long I stared at that box for but when I looked up and glared out the window I could see just barely the sun setting over the trees and the sky had turned from a icey light blue to a fiery orange and pink. I was about to leave it on the counter and finish the movie when I saw it, in the corner of my eye I saw a rusty yellow sheet wedged between the grapes and the right corner of the box. I lifted up the grapes and held it in my palm, it  had been torn a little, probably because it was teared from another sheet of paper, and the message was written in a way that was more firmly than Mrs.Mocksin's cursive. I read aloud, "Choose carefully,"
Choose carefully? What kind of note is that? Was it some kind of weird threat, or was this still some dumb prank?
Then the sound of squeaky hinges from the garage door filled the room, making that awful sound like someone scraping their fingernail on a chalkboard indicating that my parents were home. All the questions flooded out of my head as if a plug was pulled from my ear and I dove to the box and shoved it under the cabinet and ran upstairs to my room. I closed the door behind me and walked towards my closet, I was wearing a cyclones jersey that had grown quite uncomfortable so with one move pulled it over my shoulder and tossed it to the dirty clothes pile. I slipped into my navy blue sweatshirt that covered my shoulders to the tips of my fingers. I didn't mind too much but still I rolled up the sleeves and headed towards my door to descend the wooden stairs leading to the kitchen and living room. The feeling of thin wrinkled paper stopped me and I looked down at my fistful palm. I had forgotten to put the note away, it had become more wrinkly with creases everywear, making it look like tiny puzzle pieces had made it sheet. I walked over to my wooden desk and set it behind a white mug with a rainbow of colors smeared all over it. It held a few number two pencils and two black and blue pens, there were other knick knacks in there but they were mainly just junk I threw in or around the cup. For some reason though as my hand raised above the desk, behind the mug, my mind told me to not let go of the paper and to keep ahold of it but I fought the urge telling myself it was just a piece of paper and set it down behind the mug. I exited my room and descended down the wooden flight of stairs to find my mom bringing in nearly a dozen grocery bags in from the Downtown (It's our grocery store name) and setting them gently onto the countertop.
"Ah, there you are. Go help your father with the groceries, now would you," my mother said nicely but in a rude manner, a smirk perked up onto her face as she said this.
"Yes mum," I replied glumly. It's not that I'm lazy, I just don't like to do things at times because I've got better things to do. Like maybe figure out what just happened who knows how long ago now.
I met my dad, who was carrying 2 dozen groceries, inside our rusty looking garage, it was a decent sized garage with it;s walls being a dull gray like the clouds on a dull rainy day. The ones that would intimidate you by making you think it was going to rain, but it wasn't. We had a metal shelf in the corner of the garage holding various garden tools and construction tools like hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, etc. scattered all over it. Our truck's engine was still going making that awful buzzing noise, a low irregular hum. I still don't know why I'm ok with the sound of other car's engines but not ours, probably because it was an old truck. From what I know and remember it was a 2004 Chevrolet Silverado, it used to be a bright red like a balloon or a candy apple but had faded into a scarlet red from all the years it had been used. Other than that it's all I know, my dad is a huge truck and car fan, you could ask him about any car and he would tell you everything about it.
"Hey kiddo," my father said cheerfully "There's only a more few groceries left in the car since you know, I took most of them,"
"Ok," I replied.
He looked at me concerningly as I grabbed the last 4 plastic sacks from the car. I could tell because, well, you can always tell what my dad is feeling just by his face. His face was like his emotions, whenever he felt anything it would pop onto his face. When he was sad his eyes would dim to more of a bark brown and when he was happy or excited they would turn to almost a tannish like skin color. When he was mad or afraid of something though his eyes would stay the same hazeley color but his pupils would grow really small, like a cats eye. I think I do or have the same thing as him because everybody asks me if I'm okay or is everything alright I would tell them I was but would ask why and they always said it was because of the way I looked. Or maybe it's just the way I act or talk, I don't know. I'm not one of those people who study human emotions or whatever.
"Something the matter?"  he asked.
"No, not really," I said back.
"You sure? You seem worried about something,"
"It's nothing,"
"It doesn't sound like nothing, whats wrong?"
"Nothing," I said getting agitated .
"Tell me what's wrong ," He set the groceries down beside him and began to tap his left foot against the concrete floor while he crossed his arms. I knew that I had to tell him but I don't want to tell him, maybe I should lie to him but I'm pretty bad at that too. But then again maybe he knows something about the package we got today from, and why. "Well..," I began, "There was someone here today earlier-"
"God dammit Mitchell," my father burst out. The tone of his voice deepened in anger but still managed to keep calm, "I, we told you NOT to open the door whenever we were out of the house. You know how your mother is, and in the world today,"
He eyes gazed from me to the wall like he was in the process of remembering something, his face turned from anger and annoyance to a sense of guilt and sorrow. I knew he didn't like thinking about that day, none of us did,  that's why he and mom were so strict about it. They didn't want it to happen again.
"I didn't open the door," I murmured leaning my back against the door, grocery bags still in my hands.
"What?" my father said as he spun his head towards me.
"I didn't open the door,"
"Then why is it bothering you so much?"
I paused. It was kind of complicated to tell my dad because I am not what you call an expertise at explaining and describing the simplest of things. So I began out slowly.
"Well it was just odd in the way they did it,"
"Did what?"
"The way they rang the doorbell and knocked on the door. They rang the doorbell a million times and knocked on the door like a mad man, or woman. Kinda like someone was chasing them and they needed help, I almost felt bad for not answering. But..,"
"But what?"
"Did you... did you order a fruit box?"
"Excuse me?" My father looked more confused than a dog learning a new trick, yet concerned.
"A fruit box, or package, did you order one at all?"
"No," he said looking back towards the door. "Come on let's go inside, you can explain the rest when we get in there.
He grabbed his bags with one scoop and slid the door open to a nudge and trudged inside, being greeted by my mom as he entered. I stood there alone in the garage, thinking about the conversation I just had. I was thinking about the expressions of my dad's face. I realized that when we were talking about the fruit box, or package (whatever you call it) he had a face of confusion, like I said, but it almost looked like he had heard about it before. I shook my head and opened the door stepping inside where my mother and father were quietly whispering to one another. I was about to eavesdrop on their conversation when the squeaky hinges of the door creaked like a tire's screech on pavement, they quickly looked up at me as if I were a ghost, with faces white as snow.
"Sorry," I said, "I didn't mean to-"
"Sit down Mitch," my mother interrupted me, she seemed to be calm but her voice sounded nervous, like she was in an interview. I sat down on our wooden swivel chair next to the kitchen island counter, hardly containing myself to spin around in it.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Well," my mother began, "we thought it was about time you knew,"
"Knew what?"
Before she could answer my dad put his hand on her shoulder as tears swelled up in her eyes, and finished the sentence for her. "About Kate,"
"Kate?" I said in confusion, "What does this have to do with Kate?"
Kate was my little sister, she was a sweet young girl who was the definition of kind and sweet-hearted but could be a diva at times. She had straight gingerbread hair that would separate into neat little locks when a comb or brush ran through. Her banes covered the left side of her forehead, and underneath them were her hazel blue eyes. They weren't like any others, the eye would start out with a dark brown, almost black, outline but quickly dim to a carmel brown. When it got closer to the center dot though it went from carmel to a azure blue and then darkened into the pupil. Even though they were completely opposite colors they blended perfectly with one another. Sometimes they reminded me of a field filled with light brown grass surrounding a small lake and in it, a big black rock, like the safari. Her skin was like a perfect tan on a hot summer's day,  she had a small nose that rounded at the point and lips the color of a dark pink rose. She was like a little angel, and that's why people wanted her.
One day, when I was eleven, I had returned home to the door being wide open, I stepped inside and called out her name a million times. I checked every room, under the furniture, every crack and every hiding spot possible in the house but she was nowhere. I called my parents balling into the phone and they reassured me she somewhere, but when they came home and they didn't find her I knew they were wrong. We called the police and told them about her, when I told one officer about the door being wide open they proposed that Kate had opened the door to the kidnapper and was then taken. We cried the whole night, my mother crying the most, and from that night on my parents instructed me on not to open the door if I was alone. That was three years ago.
"Well you see, it's not easy to tell you this but," he paused. Staring the other way he was probably trying to figure out the best way to tell me about Kate. I mean I knew everything that happened, right? As he did this my mom wiped away her tears and said.  "You see it wasn't like she opened the door and the person took her right away, it was just like this,"
"Just like this? What do you mean?" I began to grow tense, I tapped my finger against the wooden countertop, a nervous habit of mine, and straightened my back a little. Why would they hide this from me, especially since I'm her big brother, what could've happened that I didn't know already.
"Look, it's not that we didn't want to tell you but you were only eleven.We just didn't want you to worry,"
"Worry?! WORRY! You didn't think that I was stressed out enough about this, I had nightmares for weeks, for WEEKS about all the terrible things that could've been happening to her!"
"Mitchel we didn't mean it like that," but before she could say more I quickly scooted off the chair and ran to my bedroom and slammed the door, locking it shut. I sat down on bed and began to softly cry, I never liked to think about what happened. What could've happened. And whenever we talked about it I always had some sort of breakdown, like now. Maybe I overreacted but I was already up here, and I'm not going back down to keep discussing about how my situation was just like Kate's. I sat there for what felt like forever until a soft knock entered the air along with the sound of a twisting medal knob.
"Go away, can't you hear that I'm mourning," I yelled with tears continuing to flow out of my eyes.
"Mitchel open the door right now, you didn't let us finish. Don't you want to know what really happened," my father calmly replied back, I was surprised that he wasn't furious or grounding me for storming off like that.
"No, not really," I said wiping away tears.
"Well to bad," I heard the sound of the keys jingling and gears turning to unlock my bedroom door. He stepped in , shutting the door behind him, and walked towards my bed. He sat down making the mattresses springs come to life and put his arm around my shoulder.
"Look, I get it," He began, "I know that it must make you feel. . . frustrated that we didn't tell you the whole truth. But there was a reason for it. If we had told you, well, you might not be the person you are today,"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You see, she, she did the same thing you did,"
I gave my dad a puzzled look, I felt the muscles of my left brow raising up while my right eyebrow stayed in it's position. I knew then that my theory was correct and that the thing that happened today happened to her as well.
"You mean, with what happened today. With the delivery and stuff, that happened to Kate before she was taken away?"
He nodded in response, "she was confused like you were, well so were we, but we didn't think much of it. For all we thought it was just a mistaken delivery,"
Before I could ask anything else he reached into his worn out jean's pocket and pulled out a rusty yellow note scribbled with some words. I looked closer, it looked like the note I had found from earlier. It read something different though. I couldn't make out what it said but when I finally looked up at my dad I could tell he did.
"Pick at your own risk," he read aloud, "She gave this to us the night before she, disappeared,"
I tried to say something but couldn't speak, the words just wouldn't fall out of my mouth. I didn't know what to say, even if I wanted to say something what could I say. I was at a lost for words as more and more questions buzzed around my brain.
"Mitchell. Mitchell!" My dad was practically flailing my body around like a toddler would when playing with a stuffed animal. Guess I zoned out too long.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"I know it's a lot to take in but I have to ask you something. Did you get a note like this one, or at least found a note like this?"
I nodded reaching my hand behind the mug, "Mine says choose carefully,"
I handed him the paper but he quickly tore it out of my hands, somehow not ripping the paper, and stared at it with a blank expression of pure anger. The paper crunched in his hands as he squeezed it tighter and tighter.
"Did you pick one?" he asked angrily, his eyes still glaring at the paper.
"No," I replied, "What, what did Kate pick,"
"I don't know,"
"Well, what was missing?"
"What?"
"There is a grapefruit, grapes, apples oranges, bananas and pears in the box. So what was missing from the box,"
"I, umm," he put his hands to his chin like a detective would do. I could tell that he was thinking hard, trying to remember that one, or more, moment he saw the box with a certain fruit gone. We sat there for 5 minutes, not one single word came out of our mouths. I was about to get up and leave the room or at least shake him so he could come back to reality. But then the silence finally broke and his voice seemed to echo in the room like it he was in a tunnel.
"Orange,"
"Huh?" I said back, startled a little by his voice.
"She picked an orange,"
"Oh,"
It had been silent for so long I didn't know what to say, I almost forgot the conversation we had. Before I could say anything else, even if I could, my mom barged into the room. Her skin pale as daylight and her eyes widened so big it almost made them look like they'd fall out "You two need to get downstairs. Now,"
My mom swiftly spun around and marched downstairs, but not angrily. She was concerned about something, but what could it be. Me and my dad walked behind her like soldiers and followed her down the wooden steps of the upstairs. All the lights were turned off, with only the TV illuminating the room. The glow was almost blinding but my eyes got used to it pretty quickly. She stopped at the foot of the couch staring at the screen, I couldn't get what was bugging her so much but my dad did. His hair stood up from head to toe and his muscles tensed too. His eyes widened like my moms and they quickly glanced at each other for a brief moment before turning to me. I didn't get what the problem was, and why were all the lights off, maybe to outline the TV? I looked at the TV to see what they were so worked up about and then I saw it.
It paused on a scene where the news reporter with her long curly blonde hair and tight pink dress was staring at the buildings behind her, her microphone fastened to her hand grip. But that's what hadn't got my parents attention, and now mine, oh no, the caption at the bottom had gotten it. It read 6 simple words: Missing girl found in abandoned factory. We stared at the screen, questions flourishing in my mind. Was it her,was it Kate? Why was she there? What happened to her? Was she okay? Was she, dead?
My eyes finally drifted away from the screen and towards the fruit box, my mom must of dug around in the kitchen before finding it and placing it on the counter. All of this happened because of that. Then a knock came from the door, a soft quiet knock, almost unnoticeable, like the hand of a child pressing their palm against the door over and over again. My parents were still transfixed to the screen, my mother's eyes swelling with tears, I guess she thought the same thing too, about that being my little sister and wondering if she's dead or alive, what she has gone through. I quietly tiptoed to the door and remembered that there was a peephole to look through. "Why didn't I think of that," I thought to myself, "Just look through the peephole and I would've seen who that crazy person on the other side of the door was,"
I stood at the door, an inch from the peephole, for a few seconds, did I really want to know what was on the other side of the door?  My eyes fell back towards my parents, they were still staring at the screen. Maybe there was something more that they saw but I didn't. I turned around and stared at the door, I hesitated for a  few seconds and finally  looked out there into the world, my eye squinting through the tiny circle. A gasp came bursting out of my mouth, making both my parents spin like they had heard a shrill or shriek. Words came crawling through me but were jammed up in my throat, my mouth became dry as the moisture in it was sucked away. The sickening pain in my stomach grew as knots were soon becoming so tangled that couldn't attach from one another until I thought I was going to puke all my insides out. Before I knew it my hands wrapped around my stomach as if I was trying to keep my guts from falling out. My body took control and I crouched onto the ground, tucking my knees in to make me look like a ball. My mom and dad rushed towards me kneeling by my side, my mother's hand pressed against my back, gently rubbing it making the pain soothe, just a little. Tears started trickling down my face, the water sticked to my cheeks making it feel warm as it slowly descended its path. My mouth became increasingly dry as well and it felt as though my mouth was the Sahara desert. My tongue dried sand and my teeth hard as rock, the gums soaking up moisture until there was no more
"Mitch?! What's wrong?!" my father pleaded as he put his hand against my forehead.
My mouth wouldn't move an inch even if I used up the rest of my strength, so I flopped my hand into the air and my hand morphed into a single finger pointing at the door. I saw through my blurry tearful eyes that they were gazing each other with fear and confusion sinking in. The pupils grew smaller and smaller until they seemed like a speck. They finally grew back to normal size as the both of them got up and stretched their legs to the door like they were on a type rope, carefully not trying to make one wrong move. They stopped in front of the door, looking at each other with those fearful bewilderment eyes again. Sometimes I thought that when they did this, when their eyes locked, that they were telepathically communicating with each other. Just with their eyes.
They started to mumble to each other, making sure their words were below a whisper. I looked back towards the direction of the TV but our "comfortable" and "exquisite" sofa with it's light blue background and silver, more like gray, stripes covered it. Through a silver children's mirror left behind, peeking from under the couch I could see that the white part of my eyes had turned into a hideous scarlet red with my once ice blue eyes turned into a murky blue swamp. My cheeks were a bright red but weren't as red as before, they were much darker like the color of an apple. And my lips were drier than sand paper, leaving behind crevices that could be easily healed with a drop of water.
"Should we open the door?" I finally heard my mother whisper, her voice soft as an angel. I could feel my mother's gaze look back at me but I didn't turn around to face her, I never wanted to face that door again.
"No," my father whispered back, "Lets just look through the peephole,"
"Alright," my mother replied.
I forced myself to look back at them, my mother's face was now leaning against the door. She couldn't see what I had saw, I didn't want her to feel the same dread and pain I did.
"Wait! Don't!" I croaked, but it was too late. She pushed herself away from the door and hurriedly walked towards the kitchen, sobbing all the way their. She sat down in the wooden chair I sat in earlier and covered her face with her hands as her cheeks turned more and more to a rose red. Her eyes scanned across the room and stopped at me. Her eyes told me that she knew what I saw, why I felt this pain now, but she had to feel it too. My dad's face confessed that it was in total confusion and fear, so he turned around, twisted the silver metalic door knob and thrusted it open. His skin went pale and his hair stood up on all ends, he shoved the door back as it slammed against the door frame, it was like the sound of a gunshot. He fell to his knees and puked all over the wooden floor, as he clutched his stomach with his left hand, the other supporting the rest of his upper weight.
For a moment before all this I thought she was alive, that the girl they found was Kate. A scarred girl with probably chicken bones and too pale of skin with gaps and scrapes of skin teared away. Her gingerbread, straight hair would be turned into an ugly cedar brown, giving it a swampy looking color, with every strand tangled into tiny knots. Her once hazel blue eyes turned into a clump of dust, with all the hope and childhood sucked out of it. She would've come home and we would've made sure that she knew we were with her and that this was never going to happen again. Her normal eye and skin and hair color would've grown back but even with the healed scars on her skin, the emotional ones would forever remain in her brain. Just for a moment though, now my hope was sucked away too.