THE PRIZE BOX

-Pop!- She kicked my throat with her stiletto while I was down, so dramatically that a breast ejected from her blouse like a Jack-in-the-Box.

The wig she wore flew off her head. She freaked out, and was in shock just as much I was, with good reason, because my esophagus was not what she was aiming for. She checked me one last time.

I could hear her windpipe from how heavily she was panting, like a cheetah after chasing its prey around the desert for hours until it was finally caught. The strap slid down to her elbow, and for a second I could see the lighted contents of her purse.

I'd be a fool to make a move and try to rip it from her arms incapacitated. She grabbed the wig and jammed it into her purse. I was paralyzed by terror, with no shortage of overwhelming unrest, mortified, and couldn't believe this was actually happening.

Pulsating blackouts would come in racking waves that felt like slow motion. Lights off. Lights on. Over and over. My mind would wander. In those moments, your loved ones are all you think about. I wept under my breath, thinking about what they'd feel about me, now, if they were still alive.

It was far from over, and the sound of her zooming around the room brought a siege of bone-chilling reminders that this epilogue was real. The sound of me having trouble breathing also vividly put me right back in the moment. No time for emotional reactions now. No escape- just survive.

The only thing keeping me awake was the shivering feeling of a more uninviting outcome. The book got me here, but this tragedy was my own doing. I ordered myself to survive. I must wait until it's over, or beg for my life.

Then, my ears bloomed to a clang that was like the beautiful beams of crisp sunlight that dapples a misty meadow after a refreshing afternoon rainfall. Like a rimshot, it was the door unlocking.

I rubbernecked it towards the sound, and saw the hazy image of her opening the room door, flinging the purse strap over her shoulder, and taking one more look back at me.

"I'm so Sorry!" That's what she said with a trembling voice, and just like a puff of smoke she was gone.

1 DAY BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY

I jumped into a huge puddle, hurdling a smaller puddle, that turned my grey dress pants into blotchy black ones all the way up to my crotch, not to mention both shoes and socks became water sponges.

Late for work, there was no going back home.

My salvation? A bathroom blower. When its bellowed wail stopped, I heard running water from a sink... that my boss was washing his hands in. He's the last person on earth that I wanted to be seen by. There he was, sarcastically asking me if I was having a rough morning, which even a monkey could clearly tell that I was.

Brain: "Gee, ya think, Captain Obvious? "

Actual Me: Giggled and recoiled, like a seal pup trying to trap as much heat as possible, in front of an Orca.

"I'll see you inside whenever you finish getting it together. Don't miss too much, or take long," bid the rooster.

A slightly bothersome statement. Did he just passively order me to go straight to the meeting, instead of making one more stop to get my coffee- on this day?

Nah!

I was legitimately stupefied from the looming onset of my anxiety disorder, all over a trivial, yet career-altering cup of coffee, on a lousy damn morning.

Screw him, this, and that!

I earned that hot cup, and it'll be the best damn cup of coffee I'll ever make, and will take my sweet time.

I fast-paced it on the way to the conference room, spilling some, but I arrived. Opened the door. Everybody turned in my direction and gawked, all thanks to the hair-raising clank that door made.

"You finally made it, with coffee and everything!" With all the toadies snickering in the room now, hearkening Captain Obvious, and testing me, I had no choice but to also snicker and enter, as my dignity gets cracked into pieces with each footstep.

Of course, it wouldn't be a complete nightmare if there was a seat left for me to sit in. So, now I get to stand awkwardly, hands full, in poorly dried pants, and on feet sponges. Only one thought crosses your head in those moments- hoping that people don't think it's urine.

There I was, standing, in front of cubicle zombies, looking like I soiled myself, on the brink of a meltdown. Everybody wrapped up in their petty, mind-numbing speaking points, as if they're saying the most earth-shattering, significant words in the universe.

There had to be more to life than 'trying to not shift my body so squishy sounds aren't heard coming from my feet.' I had already checked out.

I walked out. I just didn't bother anymore.

5 DAYS LATER

A “New Craig” rises. After a morning trek to grab a cup of coffee at a cozy local beanery, he jaunted around the town square until his cup was empty.

In a parking lot, he notices a man hunched over the steering wheel inside a car. He knocks on the window sternly- no response. He tries the door handle and it's unlocked. The heavy set man was unresponsive.

He dials, "911, dispatch. What is your emergency?"

Craig describes the situation.

"Sir, can I ask you to check his neck for a pulse, if you're okay with that?”

Muddled, jittery, and complying, he notices something under the accelerator. A little black book.

“No pulse, ma'am.”

He recovers the fallen notebook. Dead guy's address book? At a glance, it's mostly barren, but definitely has writing. Just not in the usual format of your standard address book.

"Sir, do you want to share your name and number as the point of contact? Officers should be there any second."

He acknowledges, "Umm, no, I just wanted to report this." The call ends.

Sometimes in life, you're just passing by. Compelled to bury the notebook under his armpit and leave, he dips into a restroom at a store nearby.

He thumbed through the book. Dates, places, and... codes?

What is this? What the... package?

Nervously, he reckoned it should be tossed. Yet, he plays out some scenarios.

First, nobody has any idea that he has it.

Also, anyone at the scene could have taken it, or the Cops.

Maybe, dead-guy discarded it; a smart move if you're an outlaw and dying.

Out of the restroom, he bolts home- with the black book.

At the apartment, he studies it. Thrilling instructions, coordinates, and-

*Gasp* Wait... a job to... off somebody?

He flung the book on the coffee table, which lands open on one page. Just a drop off/pick up location. Then, circled, $20,000. It also said to keep a portion, as compensation.

Overwhelmed, Craig made a critical mistake, and overlooked condemning details. Eyes beaming and scared stiff, he lit a cigarette, and looked up the locations online.

Strip malls?

4AM. The city sleeps, but not him, among the relentless bombardment of anticipation. He convinces himself to go investigate, pops twice the dose of his anti-anxiety medication, and trooped out.

His clunker made it to a package and shipping place that was closed, but, the rented mailboxes area is 24/7.

He reads:

42428. Door. 5623. Box # P157.

Fencing his conscience, he goes for it.

The door code worked. Inside, the damn code for box #157 failed! Retreating, he notices rows of bigger mail boxes below every section. With a deafening heartbeat, flashbacks of that dead guy, and all, he turns back.

“P157” There it was! The "P" stood for package.

He punches the code-- Click! It opens. He retrieves a black bag, dashed out, and rode his battered chariot home so hard that it stalled pulling into his parking space.

Paranoia sets as he hauls the bag to his bathroom. It's so thick that he needs to poke it with a toothbrush to tear it open. Inside, a sealed box labeled "#3" now stands between him and dire uncertainty. He opens it, and finds a thicker, clear bag... with a brick of cocaine.

“Blow!?”

Coughs and gags follow the surge of nerves. He postulates before the 'porcelain god' begging for mercy, but his stomach was empty, and only dry heaves. Later, on the couch while gazing at another page with "#3" written at the top and its instructions, he sprang into action.

LATER, MID-DAY.

Swap completed, he impatiently pulls into an alley behind the shops, parks, and rips a corner to sneak a quick peek.

“Holy Mary!”

Money. LOTS of it!

After some weeks of selective runs, the forenamed critical mistake becomes known.

“Damn. I think I skipped some kind of order.”

A job that should've been done first. Pick up a label from a cashier called "Debra" at a packaging store, then, drop it in a mailbox located 100 miles away.

With eviction imminent, debt sweltering his mental health, that little black book's prize was a tectonic necessity. He could just keep it all and stop right there. $20,000 may just be extra money to some people. For him, it'd be the start of life, and a cardinal win he's suffered and paid his dues for.

All but $1,000 stashed, he rented a car, and without the label, he went to check out the riskiest mailbox.

Enclosed were instructions to wait at Hawk Point Resort and Casino, and a room key card. Driven by the $19K waiting at home, he pulls into that upscale resort, valets, and heads to the fancy suite.

7PM. A firm knock, and a note gets slipped under the door. The writing looked Russian. Too paranoid to translate it on his phone, he went downstairs to the business center in the lobby. What he feared was finally here- a hit.

Nope. I 'm good!

Just then, a sightly young woman dressed classy sits one seat away. She asks if he knew how to get on the internet.

Deep-toned, he answers, "I just opened the browser, and it worked."

"I'm D-Denise," and she extends her hand. He shakes it, and says his real name.

Soon, it's apparent she's also down in the dumps. It was relatable. After 15 minutes of strong rapport, Craig invites her to hangout upstairs, and Denise accepts with no hesitation.

They exchanged more stories. Laughing it up, flirting, joking, and poking fun at life. However, after a miscalculation, he drinks. They both did.

11:33PM

On his 4th drink, the confidence hikes, and there's definitely sexual tension between them.

"Denise? I'm feeling a bond."

Her yearning eyes confirmed the desire her breath muttered, "Craig." They take to each other like wildfire to dried grass.

This was it. "New Craig" winning! The meaningless past was fading, but really... the only thing fading was Craig. He toppled off the couch like a sack of potatoes, sinking low but conscious.

The room spun, like being in a rocket ship that's plunging to Earth. She's scouring the room, which he notices between black outs now. Groans, beseeching her aid, blend in with the sound of objects swishing, folding, banging, flapping, and her panting as she knelt by his side. Finally, her solicitude and comfort!

No! Her concern was that fucking little black book in his lapel pocket.

Whatever she used to drug him must've had super-hearing properties. Craig clearly heard someone's voice, coming from the phone inside her purse, who evidently was listening in the entire time.

It was a man, and he was calling to her, “Debra? Debra!”

Craig turned his fallen body and grabbed her by the ankle. The terror between the two was palpable. Then, her body eclipses the ceiling light that he was staring at from the floor-

-Pop!-