Boxes
By Miranda Friend
Warm, sticky air travels audibly through my nose and fills my lungs to capacity. A few moments later my torso constricts, forcing the air from my chest. I take two more breaths like this as I wipe my sweaty palms where my worn school uniform stretches thinly over my hips and reach for the door knob. Click. The door opens just enough for me to quickly squeeze my lean body through, then closes again. It’s a habit I developed as a child, shrinking into the background. Trying desperately to feel safe.
I survey the small living room. Mum is piling folded washing into a basket. A shelf displays a small bunch of lilies, the newest addition to her ever growing collection of apology flowers. This time he was smoothing over last night’s altercation, but it wasn't really an apology.
He’d said, “I don’t know why you’re so upset, but I love you anyway.”
He’d denied it all. The yelling. The name calling. The mocking. The gaslighting.
Mum caught my eyes narrow at the soft pink petals. She glances at me quickly, shame glistening in her eyes. I don’t know why she keeps them. She may as well tell him he’s innocent. That the words don’t close around my throat and choke tears from my eyes, that the anxiety doesn’t shake me from my terrors at night, and the depression isn’t a stream, trickle by trickle stealing my passion and dumping it in the ocean of everything else he’s taken.
His loud voice bellows down the hall, distracting me from the irritability I feel rising at my mother’s weakness. The alcohol in his breath carries on heavy air and sinks into the plasterboard, serving only to make the yeasty odour which stains our home more pungent. I head for my room, pushing past his broad frame. My arm prickles where my skin meets his. I draw it to my chest and press my body into the wall as I shuffle down the hall, a futile attempt at disappearing. I pull the door closed behind me and slide the lock into place. The carbon dioxide building from the air sealed in my lungs is replaced by quick, shallow breaths as I skim my hand under my bed, pushing aside the slats at one end. A shoe box falls out of the hole I’d cut into the mattress and onto my hand. Patchy, black craft paint covers it all over. The white, hand drawn, checker squares on the side match the “Vans off the wall” sticker I’d pressed onto the lid to cover the discount store brand that shows through the paint. As a kid I’d always wanted nice things, so I pretended. Eventually I learned to be content with what I was given.
“Complaining only makes dads angry and mums sad,” a younger version of myself reasoned.
Pushing aside my thoughts, I scatter the contents onto the threadbare carpet. I sift through piles of paper and cards, checking each item off my mental list. Birth certificate. Medicare card. Licence. Carbon copies of my parents' signatures. Photos of their identification. I stack these to one side. Next to it , I begin to form another pile. A notebook, filled with emails, passwords, logins and phone numbers, creates a base for spare bank cards, a new sim card, and a wad of cash to balance on. I’ve always collected loose change; on the footpath, between bus seats, on the floor in the shops. Once it accumulated into a small sum, I would take it in a ziplock bag to Coles, and trade it for notes. At first, I presented the money proudly to my father, but I wised up after learning the price of liquor. In the last pile, on top of pages of bus numbers and corresponding timetables, sits a creased, faded photo. The address on the back, printed in fine lettering, is hardly readable: 11 Newmans St, Lismore, NSW, 2480.
I pick up the photo, rubbing my fingers over the glossy surface. A woman with short curly hair stands on the cracked driveway of a tiny home. A brick garage holds up the weatherboard walls encasing the rooms above. Corrugated roofing and a tin chimney frame the home with old fashioned charm. In one arm, she’s holding a smiling toddler whose sunny wisps of hair swirl around his ears and over his eyebrows. Her other hand wraps around the callus fingers of a tall, thin man; a brown fringe peeking out from his straw hat. Crouched on the ground is a girl of around eight. The chocolate coloured hair she inherited from her father blends into the coat of the kelpie under her arm, making the curls she shares with her mother barely visible.
I’ve never met them. Or any of my family. I don’t know if they still live there. If they’re even alive. Mum was convinced Dad stole that photo; screamed at him all night. All the while I had been lying under my rainbow covers, thinking about my newfound treasure. I dreamt of the warmth of the fireplace against my little legs that curled up in Grandpa’s lap. There were cookies and orange juice and sweet, gentle kisses goodnight. That night I fell asleep to the sound of Slim Dusty on the radio instead of the feud raging outside my door.
With renewed determination, my focus shifts to the task ahead of me. I close my fist around a screwdriver, and force open my window. I remove the rusty screws and yank the flyscreen inside, maintaining silence as I exchange it with a large, green duffle bag; zipper pulled tight over the mound of my belongings. I release the handle and listen to the pack thump onto the grass outside. I turn around and scan the room. Needing more space, I tip the objects in my school bag onto my bed. I put back my pencil case, a notebook, and some snacks I haven’t yet eaten. I add my purse, laptop,chargers, and the shoebox. Finally, I take the small wooden box from my desk and slip it through the zipper. I drop the pen stained backpack next to the duffle bag, slide my phone into my pocket, and haul myself up to the gap in the wall, swinging my legs over the sill.
Sadness grips my chest and tears sting my eyes as I observe the house one last time. I used to hate being here; the chipping blue exterior trapping me in my own personal hell. Now, my whispered parting words scrape against my dry throat, willing me not to release them. This is goodbye. To the house I grew up in. To my home. To my family. I didn’t realise leaving would cut a wound so deeply into my soul. I didn’t know emotions and memories could bleed like blood from your heart. I remind myself why I’m doing this. To be safe. To be free. To heal. I pick up my possessions, heavier than they felt before. I squeeze the tears from my eyes, wet lashes dampening my cheeks, and leave before indecision puts an end to my plans.
The journey to the bus stop only exacerbates the pounding in my head and the ache in my neck. Adrenaline is the only thing giving me the strength to scrape each foot through the loose gravel on the never ending maze of streets. Upon reaching the blue tin shelter, I slump down on the rotting wooden bench. Exhaustion washes over me and my body rolls forward.
Suddenly, a thought of the little box hidden in the bag strapped to my back fills my mind. I swing the backpack to my side and glide the slider down its tracks. I extract the wooden article and lift its lid. A folded piece of lined paper flies out as a gust of wind blows past. I catch it and soak in the words written in purple, grape scented ink. It’s a poem about freedom. There are other poems too; about friendship, family, love, and wholeness. There’s a light terracotta paint chip - the exact colour I want to paint my bedroom, and a cluster of university pamphlets held together with a pink, flamingo-shaped paperclip. I look at business cards of dog breeders and use my finger to trace the word “Charlie” engraved on a pet tag. At the very bottom is a list of baby names and a picture of a beautiful wedding dress, its simple a-line silhouette making the extravagant lace details on the sabrina neckline all the more elegant. My cheeks flush red, and heat burns my neck. This time, it’s anger mingled with frustration that causes tears to spill down my cheeks. I slam the lid closed and stuff the box into my bag. Stupid, childish dreams! I zip my bag up, then open in again. My arm presses down and crams my hopes further into the abyss.
I’m not ready for them yet.
Rationale
In my short story, “Boxes” I have represented the issue of domestic violence and its impact on young people. Though on the decline, this crime still impacts Australia greatly. The characters in my story have been left unnamed to represent the multitude of people suffering from and the impacts of domestic violence. My intention for writing this story is to bring awareness to this issue and help others understand the mental state which keeps people trapped in these situations, and motivate the readers to action..
The literary choices I made in this narrative aim to deeply engage the reader and create a connection between them and the character. I used vivid imagery to describe the actions and bodily responses of the character, such as “the pounding in my head and the ache in my neck”. This increases the readers’ understanding of her emotions, particularly the anxiety and intense mood swings she experiences. I also utilised fragmented sentences, for example, “To be safe. To be free. To heal.” This mimic’s character’s thoughts, creating the feeling that the reader is thinking the characters thoughts and evoking the same sense of urgency and anxiety the character has. The connection built by these techniques allow for me to have an open ending because the reader will be able to formulate their own closure depending on how the story impacted them.
I used symbolism in my story to represent the character’s journey towards leaving. Through the story, boxes, which connote being trapped, represent both the character being physically trapped and the mental cycle which causes people to stay in abusive situations. By naming my story ‘Bboxes’ the reader is positioned to view the character as trapped before they even start reading. The first box in the story is full of everything the character will need to create a new life. This is symbolic of fight and flight mode the character is operating in. The reader will compare their mindset towards life, what they look forward to doing and achieving, to the mindset of the character, which focuses on survival. The second box is full of the character’s hopes and dreams. This exemplifies the freedom of mind which comes with escaping abuse. The reader will be delighted that she is starting to shift her focus to her future aspirations. However, when the character becomes uncertain of her decision, claiming,“I’m not ready [to experience my hopes and dreams] yet”, the reader will be filled with empathy for her,understanding the mental cycle which keeps victims of abuse trapped in those situations. Because of the attachment the reader has with the character they will feel urged to help real people in these same circumstances.
The plot of this story continued to develop and change the entire drafting and editing process. I had a number of teachers read over my work. They highlighted areas of my story where I had not used imagery or not included enough context for scenes to make sense. They also suggested I use nontraditional sentence structures such as fragmented sentences to enhance tension in my writing. I originally thought that describing every setting and every action of the character would make my writing more engaging. As I did this, I noticed that it was difficult to maintain interest with so much going on. In response, I removed whole paragraphs and focused solely on what was important to the story and unique to someone running away. For example, I did not need to write about her packing her clothes because all people pack clothes when they move out. By engaging in drafting with my teachers, my narrative became more engaging and meaningful and represented my topic better.
My short story, “Boxes” represents and raises awareness of domestic violence across Australia. It creates a connection between the reader and the character. The mindsets of people in domestic violence situations are highlighted to the reader, and the symbol of boxes express to the reader the trappedness victims feel. I have utilised the drafting and editing process to refine my work and maximise my impact on the readers. They will have a better understanding of domestic violence and its effects on young people.