A gift

There is a box. It's one of those square old-fashioned ones, with the lid that fits on top and a ribbon wrapped in two directions. The ribbon is red, or maybe even pink; it's wrapped in stripped orange and red paper. It must have been a very bright and cheerful box once, the kind that children dream of for days before Christmas and birthdays. But now the paper has faded, and there is a layer of dust turning the ribbon to some unidentifiable hue.

Once, a very brave soul opened it. She knew what she was doing, knew that the lid was meant to sag eternally, and still she pried it off. Out burst whispering clouds and images, faded and cracked in sepia tones.

There was a boy, he drifted close enough for her to hear his faint articulations.

...But material possessions, that's all we care about these days, you know? It just seems silly. People sleepwalk through life...

He adjusted his cap and settled back down into the swirl, an image of two people huddled together took his place. The bedspread was tacky, and she kissed his shoulder and sighed

...This could be forever...

The picture melted, and then the girl was alone, dipping and weaving across a dark road. Coyotes in the distance made her jump, she thrust her hands deep into her long black jacket and shuddered onward. Her drunkenly sober steps had her stumbling and almost falling into a ditch before she caught herself on her hands and knees, turning a tear stained face to the starless sky.

...it will work out, it will work out, it will work out, it won't work out...

The vapors were frenzied now, the breeze was enough to rustle the happy go lucky paper and faded ribbon. No longer many images, one picture floated above the box. The girl, one hand clutching the phone, the other her stomach. Words, indiscernible, she was sobbing without control. Dropping the phone she writhed and choked out half-sentences through the tears.

...I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry, I love...

The not so brave soul quaked at this, and with all of her strength slammed the lid down on the mist, forcing it back to the box of nightmares.

There it remains, tucked neatly in the back of someone's mind until some fool once again becomes curious.