Dark Days

  Dark Days

  Copyright: Chris Harris

  Published: 19 October 2014

  The right of Camilla Chafer to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  The Box

  The Box was my home.

  We lived in harmony: I clapped, and it would move; The Box clapped, and I would move.

  Most of the time it was dark. It was always lonely. I sat on a bench. There was a bench in my box. It wasn't there before, until it was. I liked the bench; it felt smooth, unlike the rough wood you might find on a park bench. Sometimes, the hard wood was uncomfortable, but it was better than the cold floor. I hated the floor.

  Once there was a snake.

  A red and black fiend, it was. It did not hiss, but merely say the onomatopoeic word; “Hiss”. I looked at the serpent, and it stared back at me, its dark eyes gazing into my own. It blended into the floor, with only its red stripes glaring at me through the darkness. “Hiss?” it said, cocking its head.

  I cracked its skull beneath my steel-capped boots and it said “hiss” no more.

  The Box was mine, and mine alone. No-one else knew where my Box was, but me. Sometimes even I wasn't sure where it was; I can't go outside. “You cannot leave,” The Box had said. I could hear the outside; indiscernible voices, footsteps, traffic. I thought it was raining once; I could hear something tap-tap-tapping on the sides and top. No water came through, though. Maybe it wasn't rain.

  Once there was a windy day.

  The box trembled and fell on its side, throwing me across it. I landed, hard, on the wall...the floor...top? I wasn't sure, but The Box would not stop moving and only the deafening whistle from outside could be heard. I was in pain; covered in bruises, scrapes and blood.

  Since then, I didn't know where in The Box I stood; it was impossible to know, all the sides were identical in their coldness, their blandness and their darkness. Possibly on the port-side. It didn't feel like starboard.

  The Box was kind to me; it was my friend. At night, food would come from nowhere, even if it was half-eaten, dry and cold. Obviously The Box wanted to try some first. Sometimes I felt it didn't need to eat, but obviously it did.

  We weren't always friends.

  Once, The Box clapped.

  I had only met The Box for an hour or so before I moved in. It was a week later when it clapped. The sides of The Box buckled inwards, before expanding outwards. There was a huge BANG, like an explosion, from outside. I looked around, my heart beating faster than it had before. The sides of The Box rushed inwards, and I threw myself to the ground, hoping that they wouldn't crush me. They did not, but the pain of it made me wish that they did. Bones cracked and strained, maybe even broke; I don't know, I'm not a doctor. The walls rushed out again. I breathed a sigh of relief. But then it continued. Clap. Clap. Clap.

  But that's behind us now. We were fine after that. Sometimes it clapped when it was annoyed with me, but it never hurt me as much. Sometimes I clapped. I don't think I hurt it but it shied away from the sound, the top shooting higher up for moment, making the sound echo around The Box.

  I got off of the bench and crawled across The Box as part of my exercise regime. I looked back at the bench, which was not there. I ignored its absence and sat on the floor.

  And as I sat on the cold, hard floor, I heard a voice, clearly this time:

  “Spare change sir?”

 

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