Short story: The trunk (1)

It turned up in my garden one evening, a trunk - wooden, engraved. Locked and tied with a big red bow. No clues were left as to where the trunk had come from, just the magpie who frequents my garden, staring at me from the shed roof.

Not knowing what to do, I decided a wooden trunk should not be kept outside, someone might see it and ask me questions - to which I had no answers. So I dragged it into my house.

Dragged - past the acer tree I love so much.
Dragged - past my dining table.
Placed - in the middle of my living room.

The dull wood of the trunk looked familiar, the holes made by woodworm juxtaposed against the shiny satin of the red ribbon made my skin crawl.

There was no message, no recipient and no sender - yet I knew I was its rightful owner.

I went to bed.
I dreamt of the trunk.
I woke up and made a coffee.
I sat next to the trunk, in the middle of my living room.

I had no time to deal with this trunk. Maybe I should call someone? But what would I tell them? “Help me I now own a trunk”. I will deal with this myself.

I have no time to deal with this so I went to the gym.

The lock on the trunk was strong and unpickable - yet loosely attached. I took the whole lock off its hinges using a screw driver I found in a drawer. I broke a nail.

I have no time to deal with this so I picked up another hobby.
I have no time to deal with this so I got a promotion at work.
I have no time to deal with this so I stayed in bed for 3 days.
I have no time to deal with this so I drank a bottle of wine.
I have no time to deal with this so I went on holiday.

The trunk is still in the middle of my living room. It is now too heavy to move. I had hoped it would go away on its own.

It is a Monday evening, a year after the trunk made its way into my living room. The wood was marked by coffee cup stains, pen marks, it smells of wine and dust.

I expected something to happen as I lifted the lid. I looked out of my window - everything was the same.

Within the trunk were 5 items;

1. A Polly Pocket sold at a car boot sale when I was 8.

2. A photograph of a love that never happened, taken from a blue pinboard.

3. A butterfly, gifted now buried in a pot of soil.

4. A phone I once owned, that received that phone call.

5. A book of judgements I have of myself - horrid. The pages still being written.

These items were all mine. Time stamps. Tangible and intangible. Immovable in the middle of my living room.

I went to bed.
I could hear the pages of the book still being written from inside the trunk.
Page after page.
I woke up. The noise started again.

I put makeup on, brushed my hair, wore my favourite perfume, put on a black dress - perfect, perfect, perfect.

I went downstairs and unlocked my front door. I wrote a letter and stuck it to the front of the trunk:

Hey :)

Sorry for the mess. I am ok, just been unwell.

It started around 25 years ago I think...

No problem, no I don't need anything, don’t want to be a burden. Do you need anything? Can I help you with anything?

- Actually I may need help...

I can’t escape the trunk, I have run out of distractions, so I decide to be engulfed by it.

I climbed in and closed the lid.

Sitting with everything I have run from.
Maybe I will wait here for a helping hand, maybe mine or yours.

1,2,3,4,5 + me. The book pages still being written beneath me.

Ms ASK