my night box by Stuti Wadhwa

my night box

Words by Stuti Wadhwa / Illustration by Dana Jepsen

It’s the middle of the night and I see a box, disfi gured and black, yet so alluring. Breathless, I caress it. The box clicks open:.

and a hand grasps me, pulling me inside. Too weak to fi ght, I fall back. It is a bottomless pit, yet I feel the end inside, whiskey dark.

Fear cascades down my spine, the silence deafening, my heart racing. A cruel laughter fi lls the space, a cocky callousness swarming, my existence a mockery.

A cloud of misery engulfs me, my lungs fi ghting for air, and I feel light. I look for a window. Yearning for oxygen, I almost miss

a voice so mean, it’s barely heard. The menacing words, echoing inside, piercing through my body.

My blemished skin exposed, tiger stripes running across my hips crooked teeth, thighs graced with cellulite; all my vulnerabilities, dug out from the deep.

In the early hours, the grey light of dawn pours inside. If only I could silence the voices, I’d hear the sweet chirping of the birds. I hold it together just long enough for it to be over, then the sunlight hits. In the golden light the voices fade, sharp winds striking my face.

My lungs fi ll with air, I can smell the dewy grass; It’s a new day. I can fi nally feel my limbs.

White beads are scattered beside my bed. It’s time for my pills. The box slowly retreats until the night comes again.