Revisiting A Friend: Abby's Lockbox

One of my speculative short stories published in The Literary Hatchet.

Every so often, I revisit a previous short story or flash fiction of mine that made its way to a print publication, thanks to the amazing & hardworking editors that accepted my submitted work.

Yesterday, Abby's Lockbox walked through my door. We sat down, enjoyed a cup of Earl Grey tea and a handful of delicious Black Magic cookies from my friends at In the Black Cookie Co.

Abby's Lockbox came alive in my mind a year ago, thinking about a friend whose parent had begun to show signs of dementia at the age of 59, what I consider too young for this illness. I couldn't help but delve deep into what it must feel like, to lose yourself in time. Fooled by tomorrow, yesterday, and today. Yet tied to a painful memory that threads its way across all of space in one's memories.

Thank you to The Literary Hatchet, published by Pear Tree Press, for including Abby's Lockbox in their book #38, released in November 2024.

And, now---here is an excerpt from Abby's Lockbox.

When Abby sleeps at night, she doesn’t really sleep. She doesn’t toss or turn. She doesn’t wrap herself like a burrito in the bed covers. She doesn’t take medication, and she doesn’t drink tea. For Abby, the night is not night, and day is not day. She’s not alive. And she’s not dead. She’s just a girl. A teen. A woman in her forties. Eighties. She can’t remember. There are so many lies, so many truths she can’t remember.

There’s a hard-back chair in her room. But is it her room? She doesn’t know. She could have wandered from chair to chair, inside of a furniture store, testing them all. Hard. Soft. Just right. Maybe her name is really Goldilocks.

But Abby’s hair is grayish. With wiry curls. This she knows for certain. But wait. Her mind flashes an image, a mirrored reflection, a dainty self-image with silky black hair. It’s not tied in a ponytail. Unlike all the other young girls her age. She double checks, placing a curious hand on her head. She rubs round and round, losing her fingertips then finding them again. She rubs the length of her hair. Past her shoulders. As far down as she can reach, which isn’t very far.

Wait. That’s not her hair.

She feels a soft fuzziness. Like terry cloth. Tickly and luxurious against her fingertips. Somebody dressed her in a pink robe. Did she have an appointment at the spa? She checked her fingernails. Her toe nails. Pink! They were shiny and polished pink. Maybe her name was Barbie. Maybe she drove a pink car and lived in a pink house. Maybe … Abby blinked. She wasn't the same person anymore.

Flat across the ground–some kind of green clay–she had fallen out of the chair. Out of the pink robe, too. Blood puddled beside her. Seeping from an open wound and a bone jutting out where her elbow should be.

B-broken. You’ve broken your arm! 

Abby didn’t sputter the words. Someone standing in a white skort and white sleeveless shirt pointed at her, then covered their mouth. Muffling a scream. Holy sh—!

Abby noticed the blood.

Felt a sharp, throbbing pain.

She yelped. Whyyyyyyy?

She let go of the tennis racket in her good hand. She rolled onto her side, curled her knees to her chest. Kept her broken arm extended and parallel to her chin. She wore the same white sleeveless shirt. Same white skort. Her hair in a ponytail. Same as the other woman who hadn’t dropped her hand from her muffled mouth.

Blood oozed and dripped and stained Abby’s wrinkled clothes. Above, the afternoon sun stung her tear-filled eyes. Another tennis player, another woman sitting courtside, leapt up and said, “Oh, my God. Hang in there. Ambulance is on its way.”

Abby blinked.

She heard something different. Not sirens or the panicked voices of her tennis friends. Not another scream. Not another yelp of pain. Although Abby’s mouth was open. Her lips upturned into a delicious smile.  

A man’s voice. Soft and soothing. She heard his melodic words. A song. Rhythmic and soulful. She heard jazzy sounds. A trumpet and saxophone. The striking of piano keys. Strumming of an electric guitar, and drums in the background.     

The music engulfed and surrounded Abby, spinning and twirling her. She looked down. Both her feet tap-tapped to the dancing beat. Her fingers snapped. Her shoulders wiggled. Her hips swayed. The length of her skirt high above her knees. Her dark hair felt clean and smooth, caressing her neck and bare upper back.

Sixteen? Seventeen? She didn’t know her age but she felt young. Vibrant. Daring with a red-cup cocktail in her hand. White rum. Dark rum. Orange curacao. Lime juice. Ice cubes and some kind of sweet syrup. A Mai Tai, perhaps? Filled to the rim. Abby licked her lips, delighted by the flavorful drink. Feeling uninhibited with all the others holding the same red cup, wiggling and jiggling on the make-shift dance floor. It must be Saturday night.

Abby sipped another mouthful and snuck a secretive glance, spying on this backyard party, from the edge of the dance floor. Balloons hovering near the band. A five-layered cake. Wrapped gifts of assorted sizes. Somebody’s having a birthday. Someone whose family had loads of money. Multi-level house. Windows everywhere. Manicured grass opening wide towards an enormous lake where a docked boat, a passenger yacht, rocked with the gentle waves. A string of colorful night lights twinkled around its hull. Below the lights, a painted banner with the sing-song words: Happy 18th Birthday, Georgie! A large dog of some kind sat waiting on the boat’s sparkling deck.

A boy next to Abby threw his arm around her bare shoulders. He fingered her dress’s spaghetti straps. Abby stiffened. He grinned. “Well, aren’t you going to give me my birthday kiss?”     

He leaned closer. His lips aiming for her mouth. Abby shuddered. I don’t know you, she wanted to say. Blinking, blinking. Her eyes didn’t want to be there.

A second, maybe two, and the boy had vanished. Along with the music, the house, the party, the shapely dress and red cup that made Abby feel young.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What just happened?

She held her hands in front of her. Palms down. Her skin had aged. Two decades. Maybe three. Maybe she’s been this way all her life. Stuck in the past. Living in Georgie’s world.

Abby knew the truth about the birthday boy. Too often she peeks in her lockbox, not wanting to remember. Hoping the contents had evaporated. But this particular memory felt sticky. A trap. Like flypaper. She couldn’t wiggle herself free.

She remembered everything from that night. The music. The red cup. Georgie had tainted her drink. He wanted to take something physical from Abby. The wrong kind of kiss. Hurtful and greedy. A violence that broke her heart. Her soul. Georgie devoured the confidence she thought she had. A wolf, he consumed her identity at that tender age of sixteen. Seventeen. Twenties. Thirties. Sixties. Through all the decades of Abby’s life. Feeling, still and always, those bruising hands attached to that eighteen-year-old boy.

There were no repercussions. Not for what Georgie did to her. Because Abby told no one. She’d been drinking. Everyone had witnessed the red cup in her hand. The bare-back dress she wore. Tight-fitting and short, inviting the boy to graze her upper thigh. To feel her moisture.

Her fault? 

Yes.

Always her fault for keeping the pain and damage a secret. No matter her age. She read the truthful story in the wrinkles of her thinning skin. Veins, once tucked away, rising up, thick and murky. Greenish blue. Ropey and snaking. An elongated noose. This wasn’t her body. Not in the way Abby wanted it. Dreaming her childhood dreams. All the possibilities that could have defined her. Instead, she dwindled into a limp husk. A mannequin. A lie in the face of honesty.

Blink. Droplets of tears.

Abby found herself sitting in that chair again. But whose chair? She didn’t know. She folded her arthritic hands together. Rested them on her empty lap. She leaned her head on the back of the hard chair. Everything felt too hard for Abby. Standing up. Lying in bed. Wearing clothes other than her nightgown. Brushing her gray hair. Offering a smile to herself in the mirror. She didn’t bother with those tedious activities. No, not anymore. For as long as she can remember. Yet, she couldn’t let go of the Wolf.

Abby sits in the chair. Hour after hour. Lets her mind wander. Lets the images and snapshots and memories come and go. Lets space and time tick-tock the way they want to, aiming to confuse her. Mixing sunlight and darkness. Abby waits. Soon, she knows, to say a final goodnight at her reflection shrinking in her hand-held mirror.

She blinks. Her eyes are dry. Did she fall asleep? She doesn’t know. Is it today or tomorrow?

Abby hears a knock. No, that’s not right. She doesn’t see a door. Instead, she hears the sound of a swishing, plastic curtain. She stirs in the chair, aware that if feels different. Not hard, but soft. Cushions all around her. A familiar feeling. Something about this chair. This room. This space she occupies far, far away from the cottage house where she once lived ...

As always, thank you for joining me as we travel together through space and time, story by story, word by word, into my writer's mind. Take care and make sure to leave a comment. It feels wonderful having you as a friend.

The Literary Hatchet publishes provocative contemporary short fiction, poetry, and illustrations, by established and emerging writers and artists from around the world.

The complete short story, Abby's Lockbox, is available in print from The Literary Hatchet, published by Pear Tree Press and available on Amazon.