The Box
A Short Story
Hell is a place with no windows.
No doors, no hope, no expectation of anything else on the other side. Hell is a box, and the man in the box screamed.
The six obsidian walls gleamed like mirrors. A haunted face stared back, a face he once had called his own. Now it mocked him as he wasted away, the gaunt distortion a witness to his agony.
The man raged, pounding his bloody knuckles against the unyielding surface, trying to pound away the face looking back at him.
The man cried broken tears.
The box was not tall, and the man was forced to stoop, never stand, a painful ache eternally lodged in the small of his back.
The box was not wide, and the man could not lie down, forever cramped, muscles and joints locked tight.
When he was warm, the box grew warmer. It shimmered with a heat that burned his skin, searing him alive until all remaining moisture had been baked from his shriveled form.
When he was cold, the box grew colder. The walls froze to his skin, peeling off his flesh as he tried to draw away.
Despair was his only companion, the torment never ending. He screamed in rage. Cursed in anger. Wept in agony.
And whenever his mind would grow still, the memories would come, memories of failure, and sorrow, and pain.
And always there was hate. Hate for others. Hate for self. Hate forcing him inward, always inward, into his broken being. And the walls of the box followed, closing ever inward upon the man.
Surely this was Hell.
—
There was no time in this eternity of suffering. One agony became the next, and the man knew no end.
Until it happened.
For the first time, the man heard a noise outside of the box. A great commotion.
The man could hardly believe his ears, for they had been poisoned by the sound of his wailing. And of his silence
But the noise persisted, and the man could not deny it.
It sounded…glorious.
The top of the box was torn apart and brilliant light streamed in. The man recoiled, blinded by the glow.
The man felt himself being lifted; strong arms cradling his broken body. Powerful arms, bound with strength. Soft arms, gentle and tender as a mother’s touch.
The man asked, his voice hoarse and cracked, “What is happening?”
A voice, like the humming of a thousand harps, replied, “You are being saved.”
“Who are you?” the man asked. He pressed his eyes shut, afraid to look, too ashamed of his burning tears.
“I am who I am.”
“Why me?” asked the man.
“Because I love you.”
And the man wept, and the arms held him even closer, cradling him gently as everything blurred to light.
—
The man sat in a rocking chair, bandages bound around the sores on his body, a robe of white linen wrapped around his shoulders. A soft blanket was folded over his lap and a mug of warm tea was in his hand. His body was beginning to heal.
He was looking out a window, smiling at rolling hills of green and a sky glittering with the brilliance of twilight. Tears filled his eyes.
Heaven is a place with windows.
Author’s Commentary
This is a version of a piece I wrote a couple years ago for a writing group I am a part of. The prompt was simply to “write a story about a box.” I was going through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius at the time, and found rich material in the imagination of that experience to write this short story.
It’s been a busy summer and I haven’t had a chance to write much new material so this is one from “the archives,” if you will. I hope you enjoy!