Life in Boxes
A Saturday Chill
First a brief introduction. Olivia is a character from the story to follow ‘The Pattern Mafia’ with the working title “Brahmin Blues “ I have placed her in a scenario suggested for a writing exercise last year. The theme was ‘chilling’. Her character is not completely formed yet, unlike Ed the Ted, who tells me what he has been doing and what I can write down.
Olivia lives in boxes.
Sealed tinplate boxes with no connection.
There is her Weiss & Cie work box, and her Blackheath box, which are the only boxes she has for life in London. She has other boxes that she treasures far more, some corroding though neglect. The boxes from her past. Her Florentine box, small and brightly coloured, filled with Mamma and Pappa and long neglected once vital friends, the sound of Campanella echoing through deep shady streets, long hot summers spent in the hills. Her box of boys, fumbling, treacherous, beautiful boys. Her box of dreams, a sad box full of wreckage she just cannot throw away. And her box of secrets. The box where new and glittering things are built, her box of treasures.
It was her discipline, her need, to pass from one box to the next, each box self-contained and censoring, limiting what she thought and how she felt to that which was contained. To live outside of a box was to be the puppet in uncontrollable dreams, stumbling from one blind step to the next as the dream tugged at her strings and her knotted feet were forced to follow, her arms flap and mouth clack as the dream demanded, curtsey now, answer now, run now, scream now, on and on until the dream tired and passed her marionettes cross to the next. Such is the life outside of boxes. Until now.
The sparrow lay at her feet on the wet pavement, a finished thing, flesh and feathers, tiny eye the colour of rust. The square was strewn with them, a scattering of rags fallen from the trees. There was a woman lying in the rain, and in her hand the hand of a child. In the exit to the square lay a pile of mannikins no one would every collect. The rain hissed in her ears.
A second ago, the streets were full and the skies alive and traffic rolled, and people talked and children… Oh god! The children. Olivia steps closer to the mother, looks at the little pink coat that lay beside her, the tuft of dark hair that peeked from the hood, one varnished eye. A second before the little girl had run past Olivia, her head down, watching her feet splash in the puddles. And then that profound sigh, the sound of inanimate clothes sliding from their racks. Bodies collapsing before her, skulls striking slabs without a cry. Olivia gripped her mouth to silence the sob that had bubbled up. She whirled about searching for eyes that were more than just … jelly.
“NO!”
Olivia ran, bouncing off the sides of cars, stringless legs clumsy and unknotted hands grasping steel, concrete, bark, anything to keep her upright. She ran until her legs and hands failed her. There was an empty car. She hauled open the car door and climbed into the empty shell, closed the door on the rain. Olivia sobbed in the cabin, the sound profoundly normal, muted by soft seats and closed doors. Rain ran down the outside of the windows. There was a flash of light and a violent crack, muted inside the car. Olivia pushed the chromed stub of the door lock which clunked shut. She lay down on the rear seat. Closed her eyes. This can’t be. I can’t be alone. I can’t be the only one. But she knew she was. In this small box. Outside there was nothing. She remembered the rusted eye of the sparrow. And knew she was. She tried to imagine a silent world. Campanella that would never ring. Beautiful boys that would never tease. Her mother’s voice gone. It pressed on her ears, that colossal silence.
“Oh Mama!”
She closed her eyes in her little tin box and shivered out her fear. After a time, after she was stilled, Olivia pushed herself up. The rain had stopped, the windows pebbled with water. She touched the glass, the door lining, the door handle, and its lock. It calmed her. Olivia pressed her forehead against the glass, turned her head to press her cheek against the coldness.
Beyond the car’s event horizon there was nothing, and there never would be.
Just matter moving.
The radiation of stars.
Olivia lay back on the rear seat of her car and closed her eyes.
Olivia lives in a box.
A LOT OF PEOPLE LIKE BOXES. I can jump between boxes, I've been known to.