Eight — Micro Chapter 12

Eight

Part 1. Micro Chp. 12

After a while, I came to the annoying conclusion I wasn’t getting anywhere. How could I ever find a specific box in the dark without seeing it?

“Phone, you dummy.” I fumbled in my pocket and dug it out, pausing mid-air with the phone grasped tight in my hand. How could I risk using the small amount of battery life I had left without knowing how long the power would be off. How would I be able to call anyone, tell them what had happened. How would anyone be able to call me on the other hand.

But, I had no other choice.

“Think. Where would dad have placed the damn thing?”

With my phone lighting the shelves, I began my search from the beginning, starting with the top shelf of the unit. As I scanned along the line, I rubbed away the dust from the boxes as I went.

Halloween. Tom’s old toys. Baby clothes. My old toys. Games. Books. Christmas spares. Each one of those boxes had memories attached to them, a reminder of a life that no longer existed. I swept my hand across the last box, watching as the words appeared through the dust.

Charity shop.

Placing my phone on the shelf, stretching to reach the box, I took it down and planted it on the floor between my feet. The pain hit me all at once. Tightness I hadn’t felt since my grandad passed away last year. Only, it hurt more this time.

I collapsed over the box, hugging it tight to the ache in my chest, wanting to keep the pain locked inside while telling myself not to cry. Because crying was for girls and babies. Not a fourteen-year-old boy. But then, why couldn’t I, why couldn’t I have one moment to remember them.

Copyright © by Sarah Neeve

Eight, may not be copied, shared or unlawfully used without the prior consent of the author.

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