Box of Thorns

Today is my first day. First day of what? Well, whatever I want. I’m finally free.

The guard I made friends with escorts me through the flickering lights that follow the maze of concrete block walls and dull grey flooring. The buzzer that drags on at every doorway, followed by the echoing of rolling doors and footsteps.

First sight of light and the blinding reflection of the chain link metal fence rolling over the rough cracked tracks. My heart is pumping out of my chest. My hands sweating and my breath draws colder.

I’ve been here since my 18th birthday. One bad decision that landed me here. And now all my hard work to break my family’s toxic traits that were embedded in the seams of my childhood. With growth, darkness grew too, only it grew darker and seemed to reach the furthest ends of my life, where I never thought possible.

The last year, I spent ripping that darkness that consumes my family out of my soul. Fighting the P.T.S.D. that strangled my memories and haunted my dreams. And now, knowing that I am finally free, mentally, and literally, as I’m walking out of the gate.

I’m passed the gate as the guard waves me off, wishing me the best and telling me, though she will miss the long chats and someone to talk to on the graveyard shift, she never wants to see me here again. With a smile, it’s my time to leave.

A few steps down the dusty alley way, a black car pulls up. A thin man in a suit gets out and hands me a box, with a blue rose, thorned to the top of the brown paper wrapping. He told me he was here on behalf of my mother.

He tells me to wait until he leaves to open it, as he doesn’t want to answer any of the questions that may arise. With a slam of the car door and a slight skid of the tires, he drives off, a cloud of dust trailing behind him.

I’m frozen with confusion, and maybe slight fear as my mother is one of those people, I have cut from my life to erase the toxicity. I take a deep breath and begin my journey down the rabbit hole, nicking myself of the thorns of the rose when untangling the string.

As I open the box, I am surprised. There are photos of me, all different ages. My birth certificate, though it was wrong. It had two people’s names I have never known in the spot of where my parent’s names should be. As I keep digging, I see photos of strangers, and some of my nick-knacks from my childhood. All stuff I though my mum had thrown out.

Once I reach the bottom, stricken with confusion, but I guess at the same time, clarity, as to why I could never connect with my parents, always feeling the odd one out and copping the worst of it. All this explained on one piece of paper. Adoption papers. It all made sense, but I didn’t know whether to be angry or happy.

A million questions raced through my head. Why would these people think my parents would raise me better? Well, could I still call them my parents with all they put me through? What would I call the people who actually created me but left me in the hands two people who spent half the time trying to use every drop of alcohol to numb anything from the rain to the anger and resentment of their own reflections within me.

I look at the piece of paper, written in black ink and almost perfect calligraphy. I type the address in my phone, and begin my journey, rubbish bag full of my belongings in hand, heading to this address. Thousands of what ifs and maybes, my imagination running like greyhounds after a rabbit.

I come to these golden gates with the word ‘Kingly’ calved in block letters above it. I press the buzzer, a voice asks who am I and do I have an appointment. I honestly didn’t know what to say. So, I said the truth. “A scarecrow like man gave me a box that led me here”.

The gates buzz open, slowly that I sneak through the gap instead of waiting. The same man approaches. “Scarecrow, you say?”. Immediately I regretted my choice of words. “Ma’am, I am the house butler of the Kingly estate, certainly no character from the Wizard of Oz” I could hear the underlying British accent, which only seemed to intrigue me more as to why I didn’t notice it sooner.

“So, if you were coming back here, why couldn’t you have just given me a lift?” I ask with the cheekiest grin on my face, trying to change topic from my description of Enderman. “That was not my task ma’am, I was only tasked with finding you, it was up to you to choose if you wanted to attend”. “Please, stop calling me ma’am, you make me feel old”. With a shared smirk, he guided me up the blush colored, crushed rocks that flooded up the driveway.

The scare crowed-penguin opens the polished, heavy, white-wooded doors, and leads me into the formal living area. White walls, rustic wood planks run along the roof, giving a rustic vibe. Big glass window, and marbled floor leading to a black fireplace. Classic rich, but with a vintage flow.

A short lady, with silver hair approaches with arms wide open, overshadowed but an older, taller gentleman, lots of hair on his head that that look like an arctic fox asleep on his head. This woman hugs me, tears building mountain landscapes in her eyes.

“Hello, my dear, you must be wondering what we have brought you here for?” holding my cheeks in a way that made me feel like a fish. “Nope. I figure it has something with little brown box I was given” as I placed the opened box on the polished glass table. “Well, yes dear. We have spent years trying to track you down, since… well, since your biological mother passed away.”

Well, for some reason, this felt like a sledgehammer to my heart. I didn’t understand why I was so disappointed not to have the chance to meet the same woman that gave me to up to an abusive family. This disappointment comes with rage and sadness that suffocates around this disappointment, because I will never get the chance to tell her that because she didn’t want me, I was beaten, and broken, was drowned by my parents using alcohol to get me to go to sleep quicker. Because of her, I ended up in that prison, ended up broken and with little support system.

“Okay? What do you want me to do with that?” I said slightly snappy. “Well dear, we wanted to find you. We never knew about you; your mother gave you up before we had a chance to even know she was pregnant. When she passed, we found the adoption papers, and knew we had to find you”.

“Anyway, I’m Everleigh, your grandmother. This is Charles, your grandfather. You also have an Aunt Emily, a Cousin Jesse, and a sister Amelia.” It all makes sense; the photos are them from the box. Maybe I do have a family put together and actually wants me. I bow my head. I feel like I am on stage, anxious, unable to know the possibilities of what could come next. “Well, as you know, probably, my name is Zia”. Awkward smiles and head bows returned.

Tapping my fingers awkwardly together, trying to figure out what to say next to break the ice frozen between both sides of the room. “Okay, well, I should get going. I have an apartment to decorate. Pleasure meeting you”. As I reach my hand out, offering a shake, so I could leave.

I head to my apartment, and after the day I have had, my head is spinning. My heart pumping, and my breath so cold, my life spiraling, changing, and all in the few short hours of freedom. This was never even a thought in the back of my mind before today, and now, its at the front-lines, in and out of daydreaming. Lost in thought.

A night filled with tosses and turns, mind boggling questions, and at the same time, blank thoughts at the same time. The following days are filled with unanswered text messages and missed calls. Spinning rooms while I sit on my desk chair wondering if I explore this new family, confront my own child raisers. Do I just leave it alone and start my life? I realize then, that I need to get out of my apartment.

As I make my way down the street, popping in and out of stores, handing in my resume and references, I but into a newly familiar face. It’s Amelia, my supposed sister. I’ve never had a sister, maybe I should try to explore it.

As I approach, I find myself hiding behind the corner cinder block. I don’t know why I decided to, but I did, and the reason for that is because my presumed cousin approached Amelia. Arms wide open, a caress of the back and a kiss on the lips. Oh, it turns out this new family has some dark secrets of its own.

Over the next few months, I started to learn that this family has a lot of secrets. Between Jesse and Amelia, and whatever the two very close cousins do. With Everleigh and the most cliche gardener affair. Charles was nice enough to give me my inheritance before he could gamble it all away, I will give him props, he isn’t all that bad at Texas Hold’ Em.

The only one I can’t seem to find some skeletons in their closet is Auntie Em. She seems the most down to Earth. We spend days over double shot espressos and talking about my mum. She has so many stories, both good and bad, funny and a little concerning. We go shopping and talk about the not so put together family, talk about running away, and even been browsing though apartments and look at jobs in other states.

As thing progress between the skeletons and the people trying to hide them. These ideas become goals; the motivation grows. Now, put to a halt when Charles passes away only 8 months after knowing him. The family and I are grieving when police turn up and accuses one of us of murder.

Immediately, my so called Auntie Em and someone I thought I could trust, turns, and points the finger at me. A full sob story about how they took me in, even with my criminal record and it must have been me. Once a crook, always a crook.

Taken away in handcuffs, put in the back of a patrol car. Oh, got to love the flashbacks. 8 months of knowing these people, thinking I finally had one person in my corner. She turned her back on me as soon as it benefited her.

After being fingerprinted and questioned, days later finally being released because my alibi checks out. So, after some long thinking and a bit of arts and craft, I put everything into a brown paper box, shipped and labelled to the police with all the evidence I spent the last 4 months compiling, motive of spite to keep me going. The last year, and all the secrets learned.

Another brown paper box to the family with all the images and documents given. All but one photo of my mother with me. On my way out of the new town I moved to, passing a T.V. store, the news beaming over an arrest of the murder of Mr. Charles Kingly. Well, I’m glad I’m not in Kansas anymore I say to my dog, Loki, and continue on my journey.