… What happened?

What the hell happened?

It has been over a week since I opened the package. I blacked out immediately on opening it. I don’t what happened, where I went, or why. I … I can’t think straight.

Ok, let me start from the beginning of what I remember. That might help things seem clearer.

So, I decided to open the package Friday the 15th. Underneath the paper wrapping was a wooden box about the size of a shoe box. The box was plain, unmarked. There was no indication to what it held inside, except maybe the most troublesome pair of shoes ever. I undid the latch and opened the lid.

That was when I blacked out. I never even saw what was inside. Though, I had the strong impression that there was something.

The next thing I remember clearly was waking up in a gutter in South Boston. I was wearing the same clothes as I had worn a week ago—though they were far dirtier now. I wiped spit from off the side of my face. I looked around blearily. I was in an alley, surrounded by a brick wall on one side and concrete on the other. Both were covered in graffiti. Construction drills filled the air.

I felt like I had been drugged, or had drunk too much the night before. And at first I thought it had been just a night, but then I saw the date at Andrew Station.

A week had passed.

Already delirious and totally confused, that freaked me out. I had no idea what happened. How had a week passed? I rode the subway in a daze back to my apartment.

As I swayed back and forth on the train, slack fingers wrapped around the handle, memories came back. They were like memories of a dream, triggered by a place or image similar to the dream. I recalled only brief snapshots of places. A wharf at night; a lit-up space—a lobby maybe; there were several of me wandering down alleys and backroads; and mixed in there, I seemed to remember walking down that familiar, dusty, corridor.

That made me think these really were dreams I was remembering. Somehow, that didn’t make me feel better. True, it meant I hadn’t been sleepwalking for a week, but it left me no closer to solving the mystery of what in the hell happened to me.

When I stumbled into the safe haven of my apartment, I found no trace of the box. I poured myself a glass of whiskey. And now here I am.

I’m scared. I hate to admit, but I am. I only hope admitting it will help me feel better (so far, it’s not working).

I just can’t understand any of this. What made me black out? Was there gas in the box? No that’s stupid, why did I type that? Did I walk to that alley or did someone carry me?

You know, I don’t know if this is the whiskey talking, but I’m getting real tired of being jerked around by … by somebody. I’m an investigative journalist type. It’s time to do some investigating! I’m going to find that guy from the cafe and demand an explanation!

First I need to finish this whiskey and then take a nap. Blacking out for a whole week leaves you more tired than you’d think.


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