"Final Masterpiece in a box"

Somewhere in NYC, Amber Thorne threw splashes of fushcia and clementine at an canvas with the mood of a frustrated toddler. She wasnt getting anywhere and she had five hours left. She had been so engrossed in her futile attempt of working an artistic miracle, that she would have missed the sound of the doorbell had it not been for the sudden ending of her “inspirational” playlist. Putting down her paintbrush, Amber made her way to her front door, glad of the sudden distraction. She opened it and looked out to find no one there. Confused, she leaned her head out, turning it to the right and and left. No one was in the sight. Those stupid middle schoolers up to their antics again. As she began to come back inside, her foot hit something solid. Looking down,it was a box. It was like any other box that Amazon or UPS delivered. Brown, and plain looking. Had to be a mistake Amber concluded. She didnt remember ordering anything as of late. Probably was her neighbors, They were often mixing their packages up with hers. She would take it over to them after she finished her art piece. If she finished it that is. Her agent wanted a piece by the end of today. Based on shitty work she kept producing, Amber had a very strong feeling that wouldnt be happening. Bending down, Amber picked it up. Surprise flickered across her face when she found it to be as light as a feather. Especially for the size it was. It was a medium size box. Big enough for a toddler or puppy to fit in. Having more important things to do, Amber shrugged and brought it into the house. She closed the door amd walked over to her art area, dropping the box on the table as she passed by. It was then that she saw it. And when she did, an uneasy feeling came over her. Written in a fine script was her name. Amber Celine Thorne. The font reminded Amber of a fancy wedding invitation. It was disconcerting to see on such a plain package as this one. What the hell? thought Amber. Who would send this? Without touching it, Amber's eyes roved all over the package looking for any clues as to where or who it came from. There was none. No address, no label. Just her name. Anxiety leaked into Amber like a dripping faucet. Was it a bomb? She took her cell phone out of her pocket. She should call 911. Let the police and Bomb Squad deal with it. As she began to dial, hesitation swooped in. What if it was just a prank? Or mistake? She would have called authorities for nothing. They would look at her and just see the Black crazy artist who was probably high on some “recreational” stuff. The mere thought of her neighbors and the police looking at her with suspicion and stereotypical judgment was enough for her to close the phone. NOPE. She took some deep breaths. She would handle this herself. She was a college educated grown woman. She could handle this. All she had to do was open the box. That's it. It was a stupid prank probably... Everything would turn out fine… Yet, she couldn't get herself to do it. She reached for it only to quickly pull her hand back as if she got burned. Something wasn't right. But like most, curiosity gnawed alongside her uneasiness like a dance partner. Moving in tandem with her amounting anxiety.

Ignore the damn box, Amber. She walked briskly to her awaiting canvas. Unsatisfied, she tossed it to the floor and put a fresh one up on the ease. All she had to do was focus on her painting. That's all. Go back to how things were BEFORE the box. Sighing, she turned on her playlist, picked up her palette and brush, and went work. The back of her neck tingled as she tried not to look back at the box. It was a box, for fucksake thought Amber harshly. Not the damn Golden Ticket. As the smooth melodies rang through the room, Amber felt her shoulders become less tense. So much, in fact, a mere hour had passed before Amber put her paints down. She cut the music and stepped back to look at her handiwork. Amber looked in horror. Because she had painted the box. She had gotten every detail down to the coloring and the fancy script of her name. Somehow she has captured its exact likeliness and made it even more tempting to open. Fuck! Even her subconscious mind betrayed her. Amber screamed. She tore the canvas straight down the middle with an anger that could rival Satan’s. Enough was ENOUGH. She was opening the box. She had to, or it would drive her insane. It was addressed to her for a reason. She stomped over to the box. It seemed to call out to her like a beacon. With sweaty, trembling hands, she pulled the box towards her. This was it. With a silent prayer, she slowly opened the box. At first glance, Amber saw nothing. But soon she became enraptured in a vision. It was of her life. She was a child running down the grassy hill of her hometown. The room was filled with the sweet scent of spring and fresh-cut grass. Nostalgia so sharply filled Amber. So strong it brought her to tears. 18- year- old Amber standing alone in the NYC terminal. The sounds of traffic and the smell of hot dog stands filled the room. As she looked down at the single slip of paper in the box, fear filled her with sudden clarity. She understood. The final masterpiece was here. So with quiet resignation and a single tear, Amber Celine Thorne let go.

(an excerpt from the NEW YORK TIMES)

Five days later, and 23- year- old Amelia Thorne, an upcoming abstract artist is still nowhere to be found. Authorities have questioned both friends and family of the late artist but no one has been able to contact the young woman. A search of her apartment shows no clues as to foul play. The only thing authorities uncovered was an unaddressed package left on the table. Inside was a note with a single phrase “Amber Celine Thorne, November 12, 2022” There have been no further leads.