A Hole in the World

Tantalizing. The brown paper box sits across the table. The lights from outside illuminate it in this dark space, casting ominous shadows. What's inside?

The parcel appeared on my bookshelf today. I locked the door before work, and the only key is in my pocket. So, I thought at first, I must have forgotten it had been delivered. I thought, maybe, I brought the package in some morning before I had my coffee. But there is no label or writing to indicate its contents, origin, or recipient.

There were vibrations in the air. Something scratched against the paper walls to get out. Something small and weak, whatever it was, to be held prisoner by such a flimsy container.

I picked The Box up, planning to open it in the dining room, but it grew heavier with each step. By the time I reached the table, sweat was beading along my brow line, and my arms were throbbing with my pulse.

I'd manage to drop it in its current location, but I'm no longer brave enough to touch it again. So, I stare. My breathing is quick and shallow, compressing my chest. The Box, whose presence overwhelms me, remains motionless.

An hour passes, and I notice the table is bending beneath The Box. Don't misunderstand; it is not breaking. Instead, it's warping, like spacetime near a black hole, like plastic in the heat of a fire.

I knock over my chair to get away, slamming my back against the wall behind me. The impact leaves me breathless. Then, with a deafening crash, The Box hits the tile, which changes and distorts. The apartment trembles under my feet, and the floor ruptures.

Running to the chasm, I watch as reality bends around The Box and falls floor by floor into the void. I'm horrified to see that Paul, my sweet old friend, is dead. It went through his torso, which is now misshapen and grotesque. His blood doesn't flow; it is stretched like taffy, glossy, and porous. His eyes are bulging, and his jaw is twisted to one side. Paul! No, please, no!

My stomach aches, and my face is hot. With great effort, I move one rubbery leg toward the door and then the other. Like a puppet, I'm pulled by intangible strings down ten sets of stairs until I'm standing on the last landing.

This staircase leads to the basement. Typically obscured in inky darkness, the room radiates silver light. Spiders jitter in their webs and rats slip, screeching, into cracks in the brick. All the washers and dryers are missing. The garbage chute is nowhere to be found.

The concrete is barren of everything but The Box and the glowing, alien liquid that squirms and wriggles. Expanding and contracting, like breath. Like a heartbeat.

I'm rocking back and forth, I realize, and make myself settle. The fluid recedes as if absorbed by The Box, and gloom reclaims the space. There's me and nothing. Blackness. Hell.

I choke on the air I inhale. Sputtering, I hug myself, sink to my knees, and sob. Why did I come here? I just want to go home. I don't know how long I stay in that position, only that time stands still.

From above, I hear a muffled voice, "What is that sound!?" The door to the stairwell opens, and the world returns to me. The janitor looks startled. "Chrissy, what are you doing? Are you okay?"

My tongue sticks to the roof of my arid mouth, which hangs open. Useless. The dim laundry room is mundane as ever. The Box is in my lap. I press my lips together.

"Chrissy, we've been looking for you. When we found Paul dead, we were worried. You've been gone for days!" His voice resonates in my bones, and I relive the horror of Paul's deformed corpse.

"Paul," I moan.

The man takes me by the hand; heavy, I follow him to the lobby. The colors are washed out, dull, and lifeless. He lays me down on the couch by the window. I'm still clutching The Box.

I whisper, "I saw a hole in the world."

"What are you talking about? What is that?"

Shuddering, I peel back each fold. Inside rests a glass figurine, a book with crystalline pages, and a scarlet cover. The sunlight refracts through my tears as they glide down the trinket. Next to the gift is a note.

Dear Chrissy,

Happy birthday! Thank you for making my lunch and reading to me every day. As far as this old man is concerned, I deserved much less than you gave. I don't know what I would do without you.

Love, Paul.

Back home, I place the figure on the table and make two sandwiches: Crisp cucumber and mayo with a crunchy layer of chips. Paul's favorite. Then, between bites, I read aloud to myself and my friend.