Bones
Twenty One
Jamie has a box, hidden in his bedroom, in his closet, sitting innocently on the top shelf. No, a little to the left. There. It’s covered in clothes he doesn’t wear anymore, tactfully (or so he thinks) hidden.
It’s a wish box, something his mother gave him when he was ten and still full of dreams and hopes and goals, regarding life. It’s solid black with his name printed neatly on a silver plaque, right above the lock that doesn’t work anymore. When his mother gave it to him, she told him to write his wishes in it, not to let anyone see. But that’s not really what he uses it for anymore.
In the box lay pictures of his parents, his long dead grandfather he never met, him as a child playing with a dark haired boy he doesn’t remember. In the box are the wrist bands from his first three rounds of inpatient, the earliest dated April 4th, 2007, three days shy of his birthday.
The box isn’t full of wishes, or maybe, really, it is. It’s a box of long forgotten dreams and a life that could have, maybe, really, been.
Jamie rarely touches it anymore for this reason.
It’s a wish box, something his mother gave him when he was ten and still full of dreams and hopes and goals, regarding life. It’s solid black with his name printed neatly on a silver plaque, right above the lock that doesn’t work anymore. When his mother gave it to him, she told him to write his wishes in it, not to let anyone see. But that’s not really what he uses it for anymore.
In the box lay pictures of his parents, his long dead grandfather he never met, him as a child playing with a dark haired boy he doesn’t remember. In the box are the wrist bands from his first three rounds of inpatient, the earliest dated April 4th, 2007, three days shy of his birthday.
The box isn’t full of wishes, or maybe, really, it is. It’s a box of long forgotten dreams and a life that could have, maybe, really, been.
Jamie rarely touches it anymore for this reason.