Creative Writing

“Hidden underneath a pile of old college sweatshirts and worn clothes is a wooden box.

It’s barely noticeable among the shoes and cases on the floor, the wood so dark that it nearly blends into the shadows in the back of the closet. A small thing, barely the size of a tissue box, but it can mean no small thing.”

“When he saw her in the street, he wasn’t sure he had the right person. Her hips were wider, her hair much shorter, and she wore a dark pantsuit. She’d always worn floral summer dresses before—even in winter. But as he got closer, he could see she led with her head when she walked, and he knew it was her.

“Carlotta!””

“She found him in the bathroom. He hadn’t intended for her to find him there. He’d locked the door—he swore he’d locked it. He remembered turning the lock and hearing the little click reverberate throughout the small room with finality. That lock would keep him in and keep her out, force his hand and protect her from him. Yet she’d found a way to bust inside and expose his ugly truth.”