America The One and Only

The Box: An Epilogue

This isnt actually Alfred-related, but i wanted to share this anyways

I sat in a dark room, on the floor, cross-legged, staring in blank contemplation at the wall. It was plastered with newspaper clippings, photographs, and various other papers printed out, all connected with various strings, tape, and markings.

I growled in frustration, moving from my place to stand closer, inspecting everything. My legs were stiff and my hands were so cold I couldn’t feel my fingertips. There was no furniture anymore, since I had moved from our house to a small basement apartment further into the city. Being in my house with the constant reminders of what I had lost had become too painful for me.

There was no furniture, and the floor was damp from dripping water. It pooled in the corner and stained the floor, but I never paid it any mind. It wasn’t important. Not part of my mission.

My fingers brushed against the newest addition to the wall, a printout of a webpage that belonged to a man that resembled the one with the box. On it was his address, and various other bits and pieces of information that I might need.

I grabbed my coat off of the back of the only piece of furniture in the apartment, slipping a cracked smartphone, keys, and hand-made charm into the right pocket, and set out.

I waved to the doorman off-handedly as I walked by, pulling my coat closer around me. He watched me go, all the way down the street. I could feel his eyes. Their eyes.

I kept my eyes down, choosing to focus on the dirt-stained sidewalk. Everyone watched me as I walked by. Everyone noticed. That’s why I hadn’t found the Man yet. People told him that I was looking for him, that’s why I hadn't found him.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, fiddling with the little charm. It was worn now, but I cherished it all the same. It is the last thing I have that connects me to my family. It helps me remember sometimes when I find that I can’t.

I slowed to a stop in front of a shop. Well, shop may not have been the best word for it. It was more of an office for a private accountant, set to look like a shop from the street.

The address on the paper back in my apartment was a mirror to the dull gold plaque posted on the door. The Man lived on the third floor. I stepped inside, glad to finally duck out of the drizzling rain.

The inside was dry and warm. There was no one in the stairwell. No one to watch me. No one to warn him. Not this time.

I started up, counting the steps as I went.

One.

Two.

Three…

There were forty-seven steps. An odd number. Prime. I didn’t like it. It made me cringe almost. But I moved on. That wasn’t my mission.

His door was the fifth one on the left. Right in front of a small wood table with a small white vase and small yellow and blue flowers. It was too lively to be living just outside the home of a monster.

I didn’t bother knocking. He wasn’t going to be home for another hour. Fifty-three minutes, to be exact. He’d never know his lock was picked. He’d never know one of his knives was missing from the kitchen. He’d never know, just like I never did.

I tread carefully, not letting the floorboards creak. Not leaving behind prints on the course carpet. Down a small hallway, through a door, perfect.

A closet, rarely used. I could tell because of the minimal wear on the hinges and the carpet. I tucked myself inside, shed my coat, and waited. And waited.

And waited.

Until I heard the door outside open again. I gripped the knife tighter in anticipation. Sick excitement. I could feel the darkness of his presence in my blood. It made the air taste sour. My skin prickled.

I could hear the sound of the water in the shower. Every drop that touched his skin echoed through the rooms and through my head. It did little to cleanse him.

Soon enough he came into the bedroom and turned on the light. It leaked into the closet through the gap on the bottom of the door. I could wait a little longer. I’ve waited for so long. Just a little longer.

The light turned back off again. Springs in the old mattress whined as he laid down. Didn’t he ever learn to check the closet for monsters before he went to bed?

Waiting. Until I heard faint snoring. Then I decided it was time to act.

I crept out of the closet slowly. Everything was too loud. Hopefully he was louder.

I got closer.

The knife twirled in my hand, already feeling like a familiar weight, like I’d been wielding it my whole life. The room was dark, but I was used it. Light was everywhere. I could see everything. Everything important.

His skin was too pale to be human. Too cold to be alive. To still to have a heart. I almost gagged.

If he didn’t have a heart, what was there instead? What stood in it’s place? I decided to find out for myself.

I covered his face with a pillow, holding it so it wouldn’t shift when he struggled, and plunged the blade into his chest where his heart should be. He kept his utensils sharp. It was easy.

His blood was black. Tar. That’s what he had instead. I smiled, knowing I was right. Knowing I rid the world of something terrible. Something nightmarish.

I held still, held him still, until he went quiet and motionless on his own. No more screams. No more thrashing. Nothing.

The darkness in the room seceded a little. The air tasted sweet again. I sighed, feeling a feeling I hadn’t felt in a while.

As I left, I set the room on fire. The building would burn down, and all traces of The Man would go with it. Especially the Box. It would leave this world, and never do anything like this to anyone again. And while I walked away, back down the street and to my small apartment in the basement, I didn’t feel anyone watching me. There was no one to warn now. Things were better.

And as I sat on the cold floor in a dark room,  cross-legged, staring at the wall  plastered with newspaper clippings, photographs, and various other papers printed out, all connected with various strings and tape and markings, I smiled with content.

I wasn’t hungry anymore.