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Weekly Contest #179
I swear the box would always be staring at me. Taunting, reminding. Every time I opened my closet it would look down upon me from its perch at the top, and even though it was tucked behind some shoes, and buried under an old shirt, I could almost feel its presence. Oh trust me, I’ve wanted to get rid of the box plenty of times. But every time I even lifted the ratty flannel to reveal the box underneath, the pain it represented would grip me to the point of incapacitation, leaving me to curl up on the floor and let the pain flow through the t...
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