[TW]
I felt the tears before they even perspired— before the muscles in my legs even twitched at the thought of approaching the glowing, festive beacon or my palm buzzed with the sensation of the glossy box kissing my clammy skin.
They whispered into existence underneath the chapped skin of my bottom lip; their wet grip webbing from my lips, to my jaw, until I could feel the tears coiling around my throat like a harsh rope. Each step felt wintry- as if, somehow, the protective glass which surrounded the house had been removed; or, something in me murmured, was never there at all.
When I picked up the box, my entire body tensed and collectively shuddered— my very organs shivering uncomfortably as my skin reeled with microphantasms.
Somehow, I had found myself harboring the faintest hope that, perhaps by some miracle of god, when I went to pick up the box, it wouldn't really be here. I had been hoping, even if it made me crazy, that it was all a trick of the light and that there really was no box under the tree; that this was all a sleepy apparition brought on by my insomnia.
But, it wasn't.
The box in my hands was very real; as real as the sparkling ribbon accompanied by a small note— the curly, elegant writing instantly recognizable.
"To Dove,
From Crow."
At those words, my legs found themselves trembling as a threatening, waxy heat pierced into the back of my neck, a sense of dread pressing against my temples.
He was in my house.
It wasn't a thought now. It was a real, tangible fact.
Here— in this exact spot; with me sleeping peacefully just downstairs. Has he... always been coming in like this?
Looking to the front door, my scattered feelings only continued to distort at the familiar sight of the door securely locked— the one thing which felt like it divided me from him. Squinting my eyes shut, my head rang with a deep throb as my stomach lurched suddenly, a pathetic noise dry-heaved from my throat before I forced myself to take deep breaths; my limbs concaved.
When my breathing calmed slightly, I swallowed the bile wanting to rise in my throat and wiped the cold sweat from my brow, my motions all accompanied by a violent tremor.
He was in my house.
My mind continued to repeat it over and over as I stood there stupidly; the box held in my hands feeling more and more like a bomb. If I removed my hands from its sides, something in me feared, it would mean the entire world bursting into raging, blistering flames— and if not the world, then at the least, my mind.
As if I were a puppet controlled by strings, my fingers twitched to life and delicately pulled at the gleaming scarlet ribbon- the soft schhfff of the bow coming undone the only sound which accompanied my staggered breathing and beating heart before I froze.
There, in the corner of my eye, my gaze caught sight of my reflection in the living room windows— the Christmas tree blazing shrapnel and their destruction transcribed in my watery eyes.
Bathump
I could hear it— I could have sworn I heard it— the pounding of a heart; a racing, withering beat. Sickly, wounded— the ghost of the sound made my own chest hurt; my right hand reaching for the curtain as the pain in my chest began to splinter and grow, my mind still chanting and my vision still blurring.
He's... Watching me right now.
Somehow, in the past few days, I had gained a small bit of power from knowing he was watching. It had taken away the notion that my paranoia was unfounded; and the knowledge, while creepy, at least meant I could get rid of his growing mountain of letters. But now, it was everything but empowering— because, at least now— he didn't resemble a weak, pitiful stalker.
Though the curtains were closed, I found myself feeling smothered— as if, in some reverse engineered way, he had tricked me into pulling the cloth over my own head; that, per his design, I was confined in even a smaller space devoid of windows or life: completely and exactly where he wanted me.
Rolling sienna designs masked the world now, and while I knew it was a dramatic thought— some poetic, bulimic habit that let me escape from reality— my mind told myself that the creamy colored curtains were like funeral cloths: that, Crow, in his elaborate game of chess, had stolen a valuable piece whose worth I had grossly miscalculated. Now, he had the glory of watching me pull the cloth over the dead body with my own hands— the entirety of the outside world some rotting, monstrous thing.
For a few moments, I stood like that: facing the closed curtains with the box in my hands, the echo of that lingering sentiment aimlessly rippling from atom to molecule, molecule to protein, protein to cell, cell to tissue- until, finally, I could feel the box in my hands again- the hot slick sweat now sticky and cold.
Letting the glimmering ribbon fall to the ground, a strange sort of peace overcame my mind as my right hand rested upon the lip of the box top- hesitating. Somehow, between now and the very first time I had received Crow's letters, it began to feel strange to hesitate- wrong almost. Our actions and games had become so fluid, something in me was convinced, that as long as I stayed still, I felt more and more sick- more and more like my body was rejecting my own reason.
What was it we were doing now? Was it a game of tug-and-pull? Of chess? Was it some stupid dance he was leading, only for me to fumble after his movements; panting and out of breath? In threes, the exhaustion in my limbs shifted to anger- the wrath and fury stilling my shaking as my fingers finally flicked the top off the box and my vision turned red.
And for a few seconds- that anger gave me power. It was a liberating thing- to think I was brave.
So liberating, that at first, I couldn't even tell it was I was looking at within the box; as if all my senses minus my sight had vanished.
As if the synapses within my brain simply couldn't connect to one another.
All I could process was that which passed through the cones of my eyes-
Just the colors red and black.
Just a box full of colors, and nothing more.
♙♙♙
It was the color black which first returned my hearing to me- the color flickering alight to an ashy, reflective navy hue- composed of hundreds of little tufts and shapes, which for a breath, looked like crystals. They shimmered with a dark, sleek shine- as if they were twinkling after being coated with dark, wet paint; the kind artists use- the kind artists use to add a twinkle to a portrait's eye or mischief to sly grin.
"Haa-"
The sound of my own startled gasp felt foreign now- just like the numbness which had put out the fire in my mind and replaced it with a sluggish ice- like an older, wiser part knew that, as long as I didn't understand what it was that I was looking at, everything would be okay. I could pretend that this box was never here; I could put the lid back on and have just a day- no, just a few more hours of the small peace I had felt just moments ago, which now felt like it was lifetimes away- the word itself nothing but a brief instance.
And with each blink, I could feel the tremoring sparking to life in me- at first just tickling my cells like windchimes, until my very vision began to shake.
"Mo-" The sound died in the back of my throat as the color vermillion made her slow appearance- slithering out from the darkest crevices of seeping black until the brightness burned their likeness into my pupils.
It was that color- that sickly, trapping color- which returned my smell.
Smokey- a rugged, industrial taste; the metallic tones slowly shifting to something earthy and salty- so pungent and ghastly that my eyes watered as the scent felt as if it were invading my body; like I was drinking arsenic with each inhale.
"DAD!"
My eyes watched the box fall from my hands in what felt like slow motion- the pitch-black and ruby-red flying like sprays of light from wet highway drives streaking dully- glowing like they were eyes staring at me in agony- in blame.
"DAAAAD!" This time, the scream scraped upon the back of my throat as if it were made of razorblades, my body rocking back so hard my chest felt like it was being squeezed.
Though I had shut my eyes, the colors within the box continued to swirl before my eyes- flickering between one scream and the next; one agony to the following fear, one taste to the following acidic vomit.
I hadn't realized I was still wailing when my father's arms wrapped around me- his concerned voice feeling far away as my mother's footsteps hurriedly followed after his- his warm hands gripping my face enough for me to at least take a breath after gasping for him that much- as if in my panic I could only cry and not breath.
While I regained the feeling of air in my lungs, I could faintly hear my mother's sounds of shock as she stumbled upon the box- my arms turning into steel enforcements which acted to shield me from him- him, who was here, in my house in the dead of the night, leaving me a nightmare for a Christmas present.
♙♙♙
Though I wasn't aware of it, at some point our house was full of four police officers as they collected the box and asked my parents questions- my father's warm arms at some point replaced by a thick blanket as my eyes continued to swim with the sight my brain so desperately wanted me to forget. Though I knew I was in my house- that I should be seeing the beige colored walls, the Christmas lights- the painting of a sailboat which hung over the dining room table; all I could see was scarlet and onyx, as if maybe I had been sucked into his world now- something which was much more frightening and much less pathetic than I had let myself believe.
"Is our daughter going to be alright? She hasn't said a word since she opened it."
My mother's voice felt hazy as it fell upon my ears- like I was underwater while the rest of them were on firm land- like gravity had dragged me into a deep, isolating pit.
"She'll be okay." An officer's voice faintly echoed from above. "She's just in shock. We'll send over a counselor and ask her questions at home while we process this at the station. Did you say there was more evidence in the basement?"
Though I couldn't see, this time I wet my lips and opened my voice.
"There's a bin in my room with some of the things he's given me. I threw some of the letters he gave me away."
At the silence answering me, for a moment I thought I couldn't hear again before I heard footsteps walk towards the basement, the opening of the door, and the descending footsteps of an officer making his way to my room.
At once I was both hyper and not aware- I could tell where the officer was in my room just from his footsteps- but on the other hand, I was drowning in a sensory chaos brought on by self-bliss; a small voice in the back of my mind telling me that all I need to do is go to sleep, and everything will be alright when I open my eyes again.
There won't be any red- the living, dying cardinal hue which my firing synapses burned into recognition- the ignorant bliss hiding by a thin, thin film.
So thin, it became the individual tufts of inky feathers- those textured, little waves which ride upon the velvet plumage and beats against the wing- higher and higher until you get to that puffed, bent throat. That unnatural, broken neck which can now longer speak, holding its heart which can no longer beat.
"Dear Dove," The words were mangled with the dead crow in the box- the lifeless puppet- the bleeding crow whose jet night eyes twinkled in the Christmas lights. The words were colorless- nor were they written or even uttered- but they were there in the after-thought; they were laced in pink and plum veins- the white, plucked skin which sagged unnaturally exposing its rotting insides- the glistening arteries lunged forward into its beak, and at the end; a grey claw holding its small, twitching organ.
"I love you so much, I would rip my own heart out for you."