Black Box
Though I had never needed one before, I went out and bought an industrial-grade paper shredder just for the occasion. Sitting down on the carpet, I opened the box containing the last remnants: notes, cards, cute little Japantown trinkets, origami figures concealing handwritten messages — they all went in. A small stuffed koala, worn from years of use and abuse. I cut it up with a large pair of scissors, then dumped that as well.
Somewhere in the middle of the pile lay a gold-plated keychain in the shape of one of those towering gates of the Forbidden City, which I bought long ago during a trip to Beijing. In truth, it was only half the gate: one part of a double door. Several times, I had considered asking if she still had the other, but I didn’t want to look too sentimental. I suppose this one souvenir I will keep, I thought, slipping my keys onto the chain, and the chain into my pocket. I proceeded to shred more papers.
“What happened between May and November, three years ago?” my doctor’s voice echoed in my mind. I stared back blankly.
“Still don’t remember?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
He sighed, turning around to scribble something illegible on carbon paper.
“Take this to Psychiatry tomorrow. This is very important, you understand?”
I nodded.
I went home that day, fully intending to follow the instructions. That is, until I stumbled upon the shoebox, tucked deep in the back of my closet. From then on, it came to be known in my imagination as the Black Box, though there was nothing black about it; it was just an innocuous orange Nike shoebox.
It took some time, but at last I reached the very bottom of the heap, where I rediscovered the letter:
I’ve hidden a key under the bush outside the door. Use it to let yourself in. If I’ve succeeded, you’ll find me in the living room. I know you’ve been doing everything you can to help me, but I’m just not worth it. I’m so sorry to let you down. Remember always that…
I couldn’t bring myself to read through to the end. Down the shredder it went. The machine grunted under the weight of the thick card stock, grinding away for hours-long seconds, until the gears fell silent and I could not take it back.
“You’re an adult now.” I’ve figured out that when people say this, what they really mean is, “I don’t feel like empathizing with you anymore.” I suppose they have their reasons.
Whether I really am an adult, I can’t be sure. What I do know is that I am twenty-odd years old; I have dark hair, darker eyes, and something that a doctor might consider dissociative amnesia. I like classic novels, soft wool sweaters, and late-night escapades with friends. Sometimes when I drive, one of them will compliment me on the keychain in the shape of a Chinese palace gate, dangling from the ignition, though no one has yet noticed it is only half of one. I don’t blame them of course; it’s hard to tell, if you don’t know what you are looking for.
