Hidden away in the back of a drawer was something that she hadn’t looked at in decades. She hadn’t looked, but she had never forgotten. Sometimes she would open the drawer and begin to move aside the papers within. But something always stopped her hand, and she would hastily shove everything back into place, slam the drawer closed, and vow never to open it again.
She would keep her word for months, years. But always the temptation came back.
Always the drawer called to her.
At first the pull would seem to be gone completely. The first several days after an aborted attempt would be quiet, a relief of such magnitude that she could nearly breathe fully, could nearly think clearly.
Sometimes she would even open the curtains in the main room, just a sliver, and then sit on the floor and watch the dust motes dance in the slim stream of sunlight which crept in through the narrow opening. Sit close enough that she could have put her hand in the light, could have felt the warmth on her skin again. Sometimes she would stretch an arm out, fingers reaching for the sunbeam, like flowers bending to the light in search of nourishment.
But her fingers would stop a breath away from the sparkling glow. She’d snatch her hand away and scoot backward across the floor to huddle in the dark corner far from the window.
How close she would come.
How tempted she was.
Within a few days her facade of calm would begin fading away, leaving the pit of yearning in her gut. Just a whisper. But it would grow. Soon it would grow a louder voice, then a shout, then a scream. It would echo through her mind until her mind could no longer contain it, and then it would spill down into her body, poisoning every nook and cranny and she’d feel filthy with the darkness of it. Until her mind and body had become nothing but a shrieking vortex of need.
And then, every time, she would open the drawer again. Put aside the papers, and stand on the razor’s edge of giving in, or walking away.
Every time it became harder to pull her hand out of the drawer. Every time it took more and more effort of will to walk away.
And her will was sliding away, sluicing off of her like water off marble. She was hardening, she knew. Her ability to care, to laugh, to love, it was all seizing up and becoming rigid and brittle.
She knew the slightest blow would shatter her.
And if that were the case, if she were doomed to her fate, why resist?
How bad could it be?
These thoughts would swarm around her, slowly talking her into doing the one thing that she swore she would never, ever do. No matter what. No matter how tempted she was. No matter how loud the voices became.
She told herself it was better this way. It was easier. It was survivable.
And she held. She held.
Until one day, when she didn’t.
It wasn’t an unusual day. Nothing consequential had happened. No amazing or appalling circumstance had arisen. She simply knew that it was time.
Time to open the drawer.
With unsteady legs she walked to the drawer. With shaking hands she grasped the handle and pulled it open. With trembling fingers she shuffled the papers aside.
And there it was.
The box.
It was neither small nor large, neither plain nor ornate. The outer appearance was of no importance.
What was inside was of monumental importance.
She knew this because she had filled it herself.
Her hands shook as she lifted the box from its hiding place. Carried it to the curtain-covered window and sat down on the floor.
She held the box cupped in her hands. Felt the tendrils of fear twist up from her gut and wrap themselves around her throat. Her breathing came in tight gasps. The box lid rattled softly from the tremor in her hands.
With one hand she grasped the lid. Squeezed her eyes shut.
And opened the box.
The flood which spilled forth overwhelmed her. She gasped and dropped the box as the memories and emotions which had been compressed within and were now free cascaded over her, taking her breath away.
They hurt! Oh how they hurt! She hadn’t been prepared for this, she wasn’t ready. It wasn’t time, this was a mistake! She had to stop it!
She grasped the lid and tried with all her might to push it back onto the box. But it wouldn’t go back. The harder she pushed, the more it resisted, until it disintegrated in her hands and spilled through her fingers.
The box was open. Forever, now. She couldn’t close it again.
For a long time she sat, huddled in her dark corner, shaking and weeping under the hurricane of a lifetime of hurts set free from where they had been shoved down, and down, and down. Locked in the darkness of the box and ignored. Untouched. Unseen.
Now they were unleashed and demanded attention. Validation. Resolution.
She rocked back and forth with the pain, arms wrapped around herself, in an attempt to hide in her resistance.
But the tide came on, and on, and on.
Until…
Acceptance.
She let go. Allowed the waves to crash. Moved with them, not against them. Swam within them.
Acceptance.
The tears calmed. The breath returned.
Acceptance.
For the first time in a long time, she realized that she was whole.
She found herself at the window, hand on the curtain. Watched herself grasp the fabric, pull it back wide, and felt the sun warm on her face.
For the first time in a long time, she smiled.
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Day 4 Prompt: Hidden away in the back of a drawer...
Beautiful!
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