Blake Hogen
The streets were all Eric Peterson ever knew. The cold, wet, abysmal, New York streets. They greeted him when he awoke in the morning, the pains of hunger and exhaustion bringing him into the conscious world and reminding him that he was a failure. They reminded him that he might as well just lay down on the street and dissolve, leaving the material world behind and trying to find salvation.
The first line of that paragraph was a lie, of course; Eric had been raised in a small country home, brought up by a loving family, and raised to be a success, raised to be someone. But the beautiful bubble that was his childhood world was quickly decimated by his classmates: imperfect, ruddy scoundrels that dabbled in drugs of the highest order. Quickly, Eric caught on and, quickly, Eric was destroyed. He didn’t even know what they were; he just liked to do them. Soon, Eric’s grades fell, his work suffered and he was cast out. His family tried to intervene but, they couldn’t save him from becoming an adult. On his 18th birthday, Eric left them, waving goodbye to the cultured, protected life he had lived to go and enjoy the artificial highs that could save him from his disastrous reality. Of course, they had created this reality in the first place, and now Eric was truly lost.
He decided to get up this morning; some days he didn’t even move. He just sat there, holding a metal cup, looking for the generosity that seldom surfaced in society. This day was different, though. He decided to move; he decided to wake up. Eric stood up, and walked about, stretching his thin, malnourished legs. He wrapped his ragged raincoat about himself: it was a cold morning. But of course it was cold! Winter slipped over the horizon and within a few minutes, light snowflakes began to fall. Eric shuffled his way down the sloppy, dim sidewalk and brought with him an air of solemn hope, and troubled despair.
The windows on the sides of the towering skyscrapers reflected Eric’s image back to him. He saw himself clearly for the first time in a couple weeks. His brown hair was shaggy, long, and dirty. His face was streaked with dirt and his boots and pants were muddy. His teeth were crooked and yellow stains appeared on them. His skin was pale white and his maple syrup-brown eyes were bloodshot. He wasn’t tired of course. He had just awoken.
Soon the skyscraper passed him by, just like the hundreds of people he saw bustling down the busy New York streets. Their voices became a homogenous mixture of sounds and phones and words. At first Eric felt invisible; he felt that he didn’t matter and that nobody cared. They didn’t care of course; they didn’t know him and they couldn’t care. Then, Eric saw something that changed his inclination. They turned their eyes towards him as they passed. Their eyes, brown, blue, green, hazel, pierced his skin. He realized that this was much worse. As they passed him the people shifted their gaze, even for just a moment, and he saw that they despised him. He was garbage, he was nothing, he was a waste of space. He turned his head to the ground as he shuffled, but he could still feel the stares through his raincoat hood. He felt the uncomfortable poking of their vision on his face, in his heart and his soul. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
Eric turned and started to stumble-run into the nearest alley. Dumpsters overflowed with trash that made him feel at home; Eric lived in the trash, for he felt familiar among the garbage. He stumbled over towards one of the dumpsters, and collapsed on the ground. His stomach was a black hole, trying to absorb anything he could find. He pulled himself up the side of the dumpster and looked within. There were countless items and none of them seem to be of any value. It was all just pieces of rubber and trashbags that, upon being ripped open, revealed nothing but debris. Not a single morsel of food. Eric slumped his head down on his arms on the edge of the dumpster as tears began to stream from his eyes.
He felt the waves of despair and sorrow wash over him like the piercing stares of all those who had passed him before. Eric lifted his head and looked into the dumpster. He saw a sharp, metallic piece of something. Perfect he thought. He grabbed the thing, and saw that it was about five inches long, just long enough to pierce his heart all the way through. Just long enough to deliver him from this pain. He aimed the pointed part of the shard towards his chest, and put the pointed tip against his skin. He looked down. He saw his chest, and felt his pulse quicken. His chest went out and in and out and in and his heart could feel the shard outside of his skin. He watched his chest rise and fall but the life he was about to end was not enough to convince him to stop. He started to push the shard when a thundering bang! Startled him. He dropped the shard on the ground and heard its shattering sound on the ground. He had dropped it soon enough to avoid drawing blood.
Eric looked around to try and find what had caused the thundering sound. The alley was still dark and still motionless and quiet as it had ever been. But something had reverbated and Eric now had a purpose to distract him from his sorrow.
He walked farther back into the alley and then found it. There, on the ground, was a box. This was a generic box made of brown cardboard and with postage stamps on the outside and its top was slightly open, the flaps blowing in the frosty wind. Snowflakes dropped down and landed on top of the box, dissolving and leaving little wet spots on its surface that reminded Eric of the imperfections he felt in himself.
A small wave of despair hit Eric as he realized that it was just a box and boxes didn’t deliver people from despair and destruction and death and so he was back to where he had been. The shard was still on the ground, if slightly shattered. It wouldn’t take much effort to pick it up and...the box blew open.
Eric was shocked. The box was open, revealing ten or so granola bars; they would be enough food to get him through the day! He hadn’t had a supply of food like this for months. Typically he just got scraps and whatever he could find in a dumpster. This was something, though. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Eric walked over to the box and took one of the granola bars. He peeled off the wrapper and devoured the bar in three bites. This only served to whet his appetite, however, and soon Eric had eaten five more.
This is enough for now; I have to pace myself he concluded. He decided to close the box so he wouldn’t be tempted, and he laid down on the ground, resting his head upon it. When he looked up, he noticed that neither of the apartments to either side had windows facing the alley. He didn’t see anyone on the roofs either.
Where did the box come from? Eric pondered. It couldn’t have fallen from above could it? Maybe...it’s a gift from...God? Eric asked himself. He had never considered this to be a possibility. He sat up, and looked at the box, the cardboard box. It was the same as any other box. It was extra ordinary. He picked it up, and turned it all about. Then, he noticed something strange. Near the very bottom of one of the sides, two words had been scrawled:
Have faith
Eric made sure the box was closed tight. It was a gift, truly it was. He was grateful. Eric closed his eyes as the snowflakes fell down and told him not to worry, landing and melting on his nose.
When Eric awoke, he noticed something strange. His clothes had been replaced with those that were many grades higher than the rags he had gone to sleep in. Eric was wearing a suit and tie and a jacket was beneath him, so that these nice clothes wouldn't become dirtied by the atrocious floor and the mud and slush that rested upon it. Eric was amazed, and wondered if the box had gifted him once again. The sky was still bright blue, and Eric noticed that the box that had saved him from starvation was still just resting there. He looked for the inspirational words near the base of the box and saw that the words had been smudged by the water that had fallen in tiny packets of frozen matter earlier that day.
However, it appeared, in the smudges, that a word had come into fruition. Eric wasn't sure if this was a true word or just a fabrication, but it appeared that the box was instructing him once again:
Try
Eric wasn't sure what the box meant. Try at what? Life? Eric had done so and had found it to be too much. No one asked to be born; it was only a gift if one saw it to be, and Eric saw it to be a burden. Eric tried to see what the box was talking about, but he couldn't understand. He looked all about, and then discovered the reference. Across the street, in a building labeled Walker and Son Banking, there was a small “help wanted” sign.
Could this be what the box meant? Eric asked himself. Could this be another opportunity, another piece of hope in the darkness of the life he had led? Eric stood up, hiding the box neatly behind the dumpster, for fear that someone or something might try and remove it from his custody. Of course, he couldn't walk into a job interview carrying a box from...well...his other life. He crossed the street, and walked through the front door. The bank was immensely well-polished and the golden rails and marble pillars within the building made Eric feel out of place. He walked up to the front desk and, remembering as much as he could from his early life, before the problems he had created, he inquired about the available position.
“Hello. I saw the help wanted sign out on the front of the building and would love to apply.”
“What is your name?”
“Eric Peterson.”
“Oh my! You don't need to apply. Just follow me; we've been hoping you would come.”
“You've been expecting me?”
“Well, certainly. You're here to finalize the big merger. Mr. Walker told me to make sure Eric Peterson was led to the board room immediately. He thinks very highly of you.”
Eric followed the woman, who later introduced herself as Patricia Livingston. They wound their way through countless hallways and soon found themselves outside of a large set of mahogany doors, which creaked ever-so-loudly as they slowly swung open, propelled by some internal force.
The grand doors moved aside to reveal an immense board room, filled with 20 middle-aged men. They all stood up at Eric and Patricia’s entrance, and one of them, most likely Mr. Walker, spoke.
“Eric Peterson! It is so nice of you to arrive. I must say we figured you'd be here a couple days from now, but it is great to have you here now! We've been working on the merger with HMG, but we just needed your signature to make it official.”
“Oh well...I don't know what-”
“Come here, you!” Eric approached Mr. Walker, who embraced him in a monstrous bear hug. Eric was certain his ribs were about to collapse, when the burly man let him go. He was probably a good 5’11”. This was shorter than Eric, who was about 6’4”, but the man was much heftier than Eric was. Mr. Walker had his lawyer place a large, novelesque contract down on the table, the sound of which echoed through the room with a deafening thud.
“My lawyer will guide you through the process, and when you're done, my chauffeur will escort you to your company suite.”
“Oh well, thank you!” Eric exclaimed.
“You do so much for the company already, it only makes sense that we repaid you.”
With that, most of the bank’s Board of Directors exited the room, leaving Eric to seal his destiny. He was very confused still, but he liked the sound of that company suite. A suite sounded important, and it had been awhile since Eric had felt important. Soon, the deed was done, and the chauffeur guided Eric out of the building where, to Eric’s amazement, a limousine waited. The sleek, shiny, elongated, black car was there, for him, just for him. Eric’s jaw dropped a little. The chauffeur noticed, and spoke, with a smile.
“Mr. Peterson, I would have thought you would be used to accommodations such as these.”
“I am it's just...always nice to see the limo.” Eric said, still shocked.
“Shall we depart?”
“Just one minute. I have to get something.” Eric quickly ran across the street and into the ally, grabbing the small, cardboard box that had waited for him. He turned it all over quickly, searching for another message scrawled in pencil. He found one. It was such a succinct message, that Eric didn't think much of its implications; he was just amazed at the recent turn of events in his life. The box read:
It Begins
Eric grabbed the box, walked smoothly back to the limo, and hopped in the back. He hoped the chauffeur would not ask what that had all been about but; just as with all his other wishes, the box granted this one as well. Eric was truly beginning to wonder about this ordinary box’s power….
Soon, the brilliant company suites came into view, fitted delicately into a large, marble building in the side of a hill. Eric wondered what kind of money the bank had, because the building itself looked like it would have cost millions upon millions of dollars to fabricate. There were countless windows, reflecting the bright light in the sky that illuminated Eric’s new future. The limo stopped, and Eric walked right up to the building. There was a doorbell, and Eric rang it. He waited for a moment, as the automated chimes echoed through the suite’s numerous halls, until, suddenly, the door opened.
A man stood before Eric; he wore a full tuxedo, and held a platter in his hand. There were various small items of food, mostly little cheese slices and crackers, but other items as well, fancier items.
“Hello Mr. Peterson. I am Reginald Linkstrom, your company butler. I will be here to make sure your stay, for the week, is simply exquisite.”
“Well, thank you Reginald. I would love some wine and cheese up in my room. After I, uh, find it of course.”
Reginald led Eric into the house, and then pointed him in the right direction.
“Third floor, third door on the left. I will be up with your food in a minute.”
“Thank you, Reginald.”
“It is only my job, sir.”
Eric crept up the stairs, carrying the cardboard box in his hands. He walked down the hall until he arrived at the third door on the left. He opened the door which, to his surprise, had what appeared to be a golden doorknob. Behind the door was the most fantastic room he had ever seen. There was a king-size bed, a massive couch, a fireplace, a 70-inch flat screen TV and, out on the balcony, a hot tub. Eric figured he was going to like it here. The first thing he did when he was settled in his room was to place the box on the foot of his bed. He then got on his knees before the bed, put his hands together, and prayed.
It felt a little strange at first, performing this action for a box, but soon Eric realized it only seemed right. This box had brought him food, shown him a job, and now he was here, kneeling in a company suite where he had his own private butler. Eric had no idea how long he knelt there, before the box, simply thanking it for all it had done, when there was a knock at his door.
“Mr. Peterson, I have your food.”
“Come in.” Eric quickly put the box on the floor on the far side of the bed, as Reginald entered. He came in carrying a full platter of exotic cheeses, and two bottles of expensive wine. Eric was amazed, and extraordinarily grateful.
“Thank you very much.”
“It is only my job, sir.”
For the rest of the afternoon Eric indulged himself and watched television, something he hadn't done in many years. By the time night rolled around, Eric, his vision blurry and his sentences slurred, thanked the box one more time before falling asleep.
Eric didn't awake until around noon. He was extraordinarily groggy, and had a massive headache. He just laid there in bed for quite some time until he decided he needed some water. Eric turned on his side, and noticed there was a full glass on his bedside. Maybe Reginald had brought it for him. He decided he would thank the butler again when he saw him. Eric drank the glass of water, and noticed the box was gone from his bedside. He jumped up and looked around his room. He quickly spotted the box; it was resting on the table next to the TV. He walked over and picked it up. On the side we're a few more scrawled words:
Here comes another
Eric did not have the slightest idea as to what this meant, but he trusted the box. He decided to go out onto the balcony and look at the ocean. He sat out there for only a moment, before a Ferrari pulled up to the building. Eric looked at the beautiful car for a moment, and then saw a man open one of the doors and walk out. He was heading towards the front door. Eric ran out of his room and down the stairs into the front room of the house. Reginald was nowhere to be found; perhaps he had left on an errand of some sort. Then, the doorbell rang. Eric knew not what to do, and so he opened the door.
“Hello?” He asked.
“Hi, my name is Erik Peterson. You are…?”
Eric just stood there and stared. The man looked similar to himself; he had the same short, well-cut brown hair, blue eyes, and white shiny teeth (evidently the box had touched up Eric’s appearance as well as his outfit).
“I'm sorry. Did you say your name was Eric Peterson?”
“Yes. E-r-i-k Peterson. Your name is-”
“It's Eric Peterson as well, but with a ‘c’ not a ‘k.’”
“Now that is a strange coincidence.”
“Do you work for the company?”
“Why, yes. I am their officer abroad, but I'm here to finalize the big merger.”
“Oh….” Eric replied. He realized now what the box had meant. There was another Eric, an imposter, an enemy.
“Does anyone from the board know what you look like?”
“I can't say they do. I'm never really there for board meetings.”
Eric realized what had happened. He simply shared his name with this man who, clearly, was the real Eric Peterson, or at least the one that should be here in this suite. But Eric realized he had signed the merger. He was already in with the company. There wasn't really any way out now. This man was the imposter. This Eric was not the real Eric, for he was. So, the real Eric told him to just hang out in the front room while he would go get him a drink. Eric walked into the kitchen and, just beyond, found the wine cellar. He picked out a bottle from the back, one that wouldn't he noticed to be missing for awhile, and tried to shatter it in the kitchen sink as quietly as possible. With the broken bottle, Eric stood by the entrance to the kitchen, just on the other side of the fridge, where he would not be visible to anyone coming in. Then, he called to the imposter.
“Erik, will you come here for a moment. I want you to pick out a nice bottle of wine.”
He heard Erik get up off the couch and heard his footsteps as he approached. Holding the sharp, broken bottle in his hand, Eric’s heart pumped wildly as his enemy approached. Then, as soon as a part of the imposter was visible, he struck.
Eric immediately felt the gravity of what he had just done. There was blood, a lot of blood, but it was too late now. The imposter laid on the ground. He was just laying there; of course he was, as Eric had just killed him. Eric had killed a man, less than 24 hours after having been lying on the streets, homeless. He just sat down on the ground. He just sat there and stared at the body.
What am I doing? He asked himself. Reginald could be here any second. I have to clean this up, or not only will I be kicked out of this suite, I’ll be sent to prison! Eric looked around, and found a bowl in one of the cupboards. He grabbed the other Erik’s body, and dragged him out back. There, he found a shovel and started digging. He went as quickly as he could, and soon the body was in the ground, and the hole had been covered up. Relieved, Eric walked into the kitchen in order to grab the glass bowl so he could fill it with water and wash away the blood on the wooden floor. However, as soon as he entered the kitchen, he saw Reginald before him, staring at the puddle on the kitchen floor.
“Reginald! Thank goodness you’re here! I cut myself on a wine bottle and-”
Reginald made a mad dash towards the landline on the wall. Knowing what he planned to do, Eric raced over there and grabbed him from behind. Reginald attempted to throw Eric off himself, but Eric pulled him towards the counter, where the broken bottle rested. The two resisted each other, not moving for a minute or so, until Eric used his leg to trip Reginald. The butler fell to the ground, and Eric spun around, grabbing the bottle. Reginald tried to scamper off, but Eric planted the broken glass in his back. Soon, there was another body. Eric was done. He ran out front, and, seeing the other Erik’s ferrari, which surprisingly enough had the keys still in it (apparently the other Erik wasn’t very smart), hopped inside and drove as fast as he could. It took him about five miles to realize he had left the box behind.
“No!” He screamed. In a sudden turning motion, Eric attempted to get his car to cross over the divider on the highway, so he could head back the other direction. He cut in front of several cars, causing a pile-up behind himself, and launched over the divider. His car tipped sideways, and he plunged directly in front of oncoming traffic. The collision was swift and thorough. Three died instantly: a mother, her 6-year-old son, and Eric.
8 Hours Later
“What do we have here?” One officer asked another.
“He’s just a homeless man. We found him lying here, in this exact spot. He was cold, and covered in blood. We examined him a little bit, but he wasn’t cut at all.”
“Was he murdered?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. We found him here, and he was dead already. Our man determined he had died from a drug overdose. That leads me to the next point of interest. Over here, labeled cautious for obvious reasons, we found a cardboard box. It had pencil writing scribbled all over the side, but the rain had smudged it beyond legibility. However, it’s what’s inside of the box that interests me.” The officer pulled back the flaps of the box, revealing a mound of white powder.
“Is that-?”
“Yup. This box is full of hallucinogens. So, the filthy guy was probably having quite a fantasy before he keeled over.”
“Well, he was just living here on the streets. Pretty much anything would be more interesting than his life.”
“It certainly looks like he had some sort of interesting fantasy. Do you know where the blood came from?”
“We’re not certain yet. However-”
Suddenly, one of the officer’s walkie-talkies began to crackle, followed by information.
“Yes? This is officer Holdstrom.”
“Officer, we have a report of a double murder and a severe car crash just 10 miles south of here.”
“I’m on my way. Tom, you have everything handled here?”
“Of course. This guy’s been dead for 15, 20 hours. He isn’t going anywhere.”