Plastic Boxes

Short story

Warning - This fictional story was created by this author. Any resemblances to the living and/or ones resting in peace are mere coincidences. The story has themes of neglect, abuse and alcoholism. If that hits a little too close, please take care of yourselves and skip this story.

Photo by Nathan Blackaby on Unsplash

She never had a chance. Never asked, never carded and couldn’t consent. She was a mere fetus in her alcohol filled home. It was her morning, afternoon and evening drink supplied by the placenta. Born addicted.

When she arrived outside the womb, she let out a cry to show she was alive. But she was already drunk at 5lbs. She was tiny with small eyes that did not come from her genetic cards. Her limbs jittered and the breathing was short compared to her cohort in plastic boxes. She was watched closely for four weeks by her doctors. They encouraged her mom to think of a name and to create a safe place for her. Then She was given the name, Heather. One did not know that this was going to be the most attention and care she will ever receive. All perfect swaddles came to an end when she met the guidelines to leave her plastic box.

Now she entered her mom’s apartment that was covered in hoarded books. Mom was always into reading when she was sober. Worlds on a page that she escaped to, before she found the drink. She hasn’t read in years.

The tossed wrinkled clothes wreaked havoc to the décor of the place. An unused kitchen that was really a storage unit for empty bottles, stale bags of chips, piled dirty dishes from a week ago. Dust like mini grey cotton clouds found homes across the tacky floor. She felt safe and hidden with the blinds drawn that resembled a haphazard cave. In the mess, the distress was freed into a space that could not be felt but neutralized. Feelings were buried, pain was blurred, memories photoshopped in this temporary state.

Mom could then spin a dance where she left the world of sharpness in her heart. She traded in her once glossy brunette curls for tattered hair. She deemed it a reasonable entrance fee for the escape room. The demand for the numbing memory lapses mandated more alcohol as time went on. There was no option since she did not know what to do with her pain. Instead, she paid the cost. More hours were spent with the beloved then her job. Sick days became no shows. No calls became no job. Unemployment allowed more time and a greater need for more alcohol. The dance grew longer with the numbing liquid. The bottles lined the kitchen floor like unintended abstract art.

There was a glimpse of sobriety in the wee hours of the morning. The headaches returned, the tiredness sustained and pain remained. Life was clear after the drinks wore off: no job, no love, a paycheck from the government and now, a baby.

She wished for the memory of being covered with a cozy sweater by her love on a freezing day, once more. To drink with this love, to cry with this love, to share the baby with this love spun circular hoops in her sober state.

He did not share the same dream when he woke up, after the drinks. He did not believe he could be a dad that could pay for his child in money or hugs. His terror guided his exit of their apartment six months ago to never return.

When loneliness illuminated the empty heart, she grabbed her twelve-inch bottle friend. The familiarity of the cold touch of the glass was the gateway to leave the bleeding cut. The liquid once again covered the viscous pain in her veins. More alcohol slid down her throat and now, a warmth was felt in her once cold body. Feelings of being left in her life began to dissipate and her eyes began to sleep.

Then baby Heather woke up hungry. She cried…….