LA BOITE

La Boite

He stood behind the windowed lobby door, patiently awaiting the woman to retrieve her mail before entering the mailroom. Double-quick, he opened his mailbox, grabbing out several letters when his hand brushed against something. Wallace stooped, peering inside the metal box just big enough for flat parcels. Inside the box was a numbered 13 key tag that opened a larger container for larger packages. Puzzled, he reached for the key, twirling between his fingers. Wallace moved to the specified numbered box, hoping no one was watching. He cautiously opened #13.

The container held an unexpected shoe-size brown paper box. For a second, Wallace wondered where this suspicious package had originated. He took out the package and quizzically stared at it. The box being of medium weight, he shook it and could feel and hear slightly loose items therein. The sender had addressed it to Wallace Hunter 555 Saint Laurent Suite 411 Paris France. Wallace checked the label for a return address, and peculiarly it had none. The front of the package held the postage-paid stamp. Swiftly Wallace exited the mailroom as an older gentlemen neighbor approached. Wallace exchanged the usual quick pleasantries avoiding eye contact. Hurried, he headed for his apartment, carefully avoiding anyone else.

Inside, he sat the parcels on his desk, turned to open the first set of curtains to let the brilliant light shine through. The under a set of curtains never came open during daylight but only when slight darkness loomed with lights off, thus revealing the breathtaking view of France's Seine River nightlights. Wallace was single, handsome, wealthy, intelligent. At forty-one, he had never married and lived alone. He had been diagnosed with Polyphobia, the fear of many things twenty-plus years previously that included Philophobia, Aphenposmophobia, and Scopophobia. Life was difficult for Wallace; the older he got, the phobias grew. His psychotherapy treatments included medications and exposure therapy. Wallace turned on the monitor and removed his shirt, tossing it on the back of a chair, exposing his svelte physique. A man half his age would envy him. Wallace walked into the bathroom, opened the drug cabinet to several bottles of pills. After retrieving medications from two bottles and swallowing them with a quick drink of water.

Wallace returned to the desk, sat down to consider the contents of the box. Turning his attention to the package and slowly removing the paper wrapping off the parcel with no signs of origin. A plain lidded box underneath. With distrustfulness, Wallace opened the lid; his nerves tingled with insecurity and some apprehension. A faint flowery stale scent flowed outward. Inside were seven stacks of letters with seven in a pile. Two cross twisted rugged brown cords bound the stacks. The parcel and the letters had the same address. No return address. No place of origin. The envelopes had faded with age and a hint of a stale flowery scent. Suddenly creeping feelings gave a swarming sickness in the pit of his stomach.

Impulsively, Wallace pushed the brown box and contents to the middle of the desk, jumping to his feet. Instantly, the phone rang, startling him further. Beads of cold sweat prickled his forehead. Wallace heard his mother's voice when the voice recorder picked up. Her voice was cheerful but touching. It was unfortunate; her presence caused anxiety he'd optionally preferred to bypass. Wallace thought her motherly affection strange, hard to endure and easier to avoid. He felt sorry for her, a widow with an only child. Love was odd and caused him distress.

Wallace made a cup of tea before starting the day's work. Soon, his meds would kick in. He would commit a call his mother later and apologize for being occupied. It wasn't until midnight before Wallace returned to Pandora's box. Wallace sat and drew the box towards him. Removed the lid and stared at the neatly arranged letters. That stale flowery fragrance engulfed him, then a foreboding feeling since retrieving the box earlier. From where had it come? What were the secrets? Would he regret the findings? He was Wallace Hunter, the recipient of each letter. This mysterious Pandora's box was calling him in a way nothing ever had. It would take courage to learn the secrets the brown paper box held.

Gently, pulling the letter out on the top bundle, Wallace, freaked out and fumbled before unsealing it. Beads of sweat formed above his brow. His dark wavy hair moistened as panic set in. He removed the two-page letter from the faded envelope and unfolded it. The letter's date made the letter twenty-one years old, explaining the fade and old must smell. Wallace had never received a personal note before. The box contents was more conversation than he had experienced in his lifetime.

Letter 1: Unrequited Love:

Dear Wallace,

This makes no sense at all, and I can't explain how it happened. I've never heard the sound of your voice or witnessed your laughter. I'm invisible to you, yet my eyes search you out in a crowd. Which, I'm confident you'll never appear. It hurts not to be loved back. It's worse to love someone and not have courage enough to tell them. This letter is my courage. I've seen and watched you.

Hyperventilating, Wallace stopped. Sweat dripped profusely from his forehead. Wallace dropped the letter and stood up. No one had ever expressed unrequited love to him. He paced, rubbing the thick locks of his wavy hair. A fearful curse, Pandora's box had found her way to him. But tonight, he couldn't continue her dance. Turning off the lights, Wallace retreated to his bedroom. Walking into the bathroom, he downed two pills before getting into bed. Restless, unable to sleep, and afraid. The box of letters calling out to him. Hours later, he found himself in raw angst at the table, holding the unfinished letter.

Letter Cont’d:

With intense effort for many years, I've followed you. I'm where you are constantly. Yet, I'm invisible to you. I feel your touch, your breath. Someday I want to tell you face to face how I feel. To look you in the eyes and bare my naked soul. I'm clueless about how long it will take, but I'll continue to wait. Why you, I ask? I know so little. Should I never see you again, I'll still love you. I want what's best for you, even if it doesn't include me. Though there's no communication, no relationship, I want to continue. After this letter, will we think of each other at the same time? My one problem has been caring too much for people who don't care at all for me. Not being loved has not destroyed me. And although I have nothing from you, I can't let go. There's something about you. If you ever look at me, it will probably take my breath away. What's worse than knowing you want something so relentless than knowing you may never have it? Time will tell. This letter is my first letter to you. My only happiness is because you exist in my world, but my overwhelming sadness is I don't exist in yours. How can you look at someone you love and tell yourself it's time to walk away? Until I know for a certainty, I'll still pretend you'll love me one day.

Affectionately, Forever Yours

Wallace stumbled to the sofa, suffering dizzying paranoia, turning off every light and closing the blinds to the beauty of the Seine River nightlights. He had been careful through the years. The thought of being watched was unnerving. The next day Wallace sat on the psychiatrist's sofa, fretfully responding to touch therapy treatment. Driving to the office today was difficult. Traffic was a nightmare. The deep-tinted car windows weren't enough; eyes were watching, blaming Pandora's box. Earlier, his mother stopped by. Her gentle touch didn't appall him as much as before. Despite his fears, he would face the box again. Pandora's curse had to mean something for him and his life.

Taking the box from the shelf, Wallace felt the need to protect Pandora. It was all he could do for all she would have to endure. Never could he return her love. Time would tell her that. The letterbox had bought him new anxiety. Twenty years had passed since she had written the letter he read. Why the need to send it now? He sat down and took out another memorandum after choosing from a random bundle. The sweats of trepidation returned as before. Slowly he opened and put the letter underneath his nose, hoping to inhale the stale flowery scent. He unfolded a much shorter letter and read:

Dear Wallace,

Now you have a broader picture of me. It's been fifteen years since my first letter. So much was learned between these two letters. I can't help but think what you must be thinking of me now. I hope you haven't minded I bothered to keep in touch all these years. It wasn't until now that I've dared to mail you each letter. Thoughts of you have given me the courage to trust love one more time. Thoughts of you continue beating inside; I still dream of you more often than I don't. People do incredible things for love, but more so unrequited love. It makes one behave ridiculously. I've tried and given my best. I've learned to be content with who I am, but it hasn't worked. It hasn't bought the ones I love into my life. Though not ready to give up. The time will come when I do. Until then, the flame of love burns endlessly in my heart for you.

Affectionately Forever Yours.

Wallace folded the letter and returned it to the bundle. The following week, an insatiable hunger drove him to the box. Reading some of the letters twice, being consumed by them. Something different was happening. Wallace felt a kindred spirit with Pandora. A new desire awakening in him. Alternate strengths were developing. Pandora's box hadn't been the curse he once believed. Ten days passed since the letter's arrival. Cautiously, Wallace entered the mailroom, opened his box, and removed the flat parcels, recouping one thin letter. Wallace stared at the envelope. He was post-haste returning to his apartment and dropping everything except the letter, following the urgency to open and read immediately:

Dear Wallace

You never felt it, but in my heart, it felt so real. You were a dream. Thank you for being part of what was meant only to be a dream. All my life, I've fought the fight. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to win it. I wanted the one thing I couldn't have. Fearlessness, but the fear remained. When I focused on you, my troubles went momentarily but returned. Your visits to the doctor were my opportunity to steal a fantasy. I saw you twice a week for twenty-two years. Our eyes never met. I was a victim of Anthropophobia. Those letters couldn't come before now. If you are reading this, I've said goodbye to this world. I'm no longer alive. Be brave. Let go of your fears. Don't expect anything; it's the root of heartache. Happiness will only come through the ability to love others. You have been my only true love. I'm fortunate to have loved than never to have loved at all. Farewell, my kindred spirit.

Forever Yours

Wallace dropped the letter weeping bitterly over the loss of someone unknown, gone forever. Pandora had returned the curse of her fame. But somehow, the letters changed him. They strengthened Wallace. They proved She was real and not a sick mentality. Regretfully, he couldn't thank her.

She watched him walk into the restaurant, noticing something different. Wallace had a new arrogance. Overwhelmed by her emotion, he had come a long way. Wallace came close, kissing his mother's cheek without a strangeness. Wallace was determined to look in the eyes of those he loved. A brown paper box had given him that chance. He was forever grateful.