Secrets

"Now put your deepest, darkest secret in this breadbox. Don't worry; this will be completely anonymous."

Troy was a frog-like man. He looked like a frog. His repulsiveness was worsened by his eerily nonchalant mannerisms and the fact that he smelled like an old litter box. This made Carl uncomfortable. But Troy was a prominent therapist and the other four participants were putting their slips of paper in the box. He figured he would too.

"Many of us are burdened by secrets. After years of carrying these burdens, we can feel depressed. We must give up these burdens to feel happy again. Yes, we must share our bitterest secrets. By the end of this retreat, I hope we will be able to talk about our secrets openly and without shame." Troy used his fingers to put quotation marks around the word secrets. "For now, we'll stick with anonymity."

Troy shook the secret-filled breadbox and pulled out a slip of paper, "I spend more money than I make so that the neighbors will think I'm better off than them," he read. He tilted his head as if in deep thought and then said, "These are the secrets that keep us down. We must come out from under them." His fat, sweaty hand into the breadbox again.

"People think I've stopped lying. I'm just better at it." He nodded, "Good." He pulled another secret out.

"I am a murderer."

Troy nodded and looked around the room. The air suddenly felt heavier than it had before. Troy leaned forward as if he were going to confide one of his secrets to the group, "Let's just hope he only has mosquito blood on his hands."

Troy smiled a big smile. No one else did. Carl stared at his clasped hands. His left thumb was over is right one. Dangling from his wrist was the watch his ex-wife had given him. It was a little too big now and was bouncing around his thin wrist. That's when he realized he was shaking.

"Okay, we're all here to help each other," Troy said, taking a step back, "Now, trust me. We're in a safe environment. I'll take good care of you and no one will get hurt."

But Carl knew he couldn't trust Troy the second he realized he smelled like aged cat excrement. "Can't hotel security just escort me to my room?" he asked. This was followed by a few people mumbling in agreement.

"I understand everyone's concern," Troy said, "so, I'll call hotel security. But we will reconvene tomorrow just as your schedule states. Remember, everyone deserves a chance to heal, even those with more" he paused searching for the right word, "uncomfortable secrets." Troy walked to the hotel phone on the nearby table and held the receiver up to his ear. "No dial tone," he said, "Anyone got a cell phone?"

A large African American woman stood up, "You said no cell phones. Remember?"

"Anger won't help anyone, Nanette," Troy said, furrowing his eyebrows, "We'll just all go up together."

Everyone got up and walked toward the closed door. Troy attempted to push it open. "Locked," he said.

"Well, unlock it," Nanette rolled her eyes, "You can always unlock doors from the inside of the room."

Troy twisted the lock and pushed again. The door didn't budge. He twisted again. Now he twisted it the other way. He started twisting with both hands.

"Let me try," Carl pushed Troy out of the way. Two minutes of fiddling with the lock later the door was still closed. Everyone took a try. Some took two or three tries.

"Someone just knock on it then." Nanette said. They knocked continually for nearly an hour, each taking a turn to pound on the door. No one heard them.

"Custodial will find us soon," Troy said. They sat and waited. No one talked. Every once in a while Carl would make eye contact with another retreat member. That's probably the killer. But he could never be sure. The only one who made him uncomfortable enough for him to suspect was Troy and, being the therapist, Troy didn't put in a secret in the breadbox.

The breadbox. Where was it? Carl scanned the room. Of course, it was on the table where Troy had left it. Did it just move? Carl shook his head and looked again. The breadbox looked like it had moved just slightly. It shook again and then started floating above the table. As it floated, purple smoke came out of it.

Carl rubbed his eyes, "Troy?"

"What?...Oh, my..."

A giant purple genie had formed out of the smoke. He floated just above the breadbox and folded his arms over his broad chest. Where his legs should have been there was a cloud of dark purple smoke that connected the genie's torso to the breadbox.

Slowly, the genie floated toward Nanette. He blew a stream of smoke into her face. When the smoke stream, stopped and the whole room was still. Suddenly the genie took in a large breath of air. The room became cold and breathing became more difficult. Carl's peripheral vision was getting fuzzy but he knew he had to work his way to the breadbox. Perhaps breaking it would fix the problem. Now all his vision was becoming fuzzy. He blinked. He blinked again, this time shaking his head as well.

***************

"Look at this guy, Officer Johnson."

"Another breadbox? What'd he want in there?" Officer Johnson opened the breadbox Carl's hand was resting on and read the slips of paper inside. "Whadda these mean?" He handed six pieces of paper to Officer Song.

"Oh, I've heard of these things. Honesty clinics or something like that. Everyone shares their secrets. Or something like that; I don't really know." Officer Song opened a piece of paper, "I am a murderer," he read aloud.

"Dang. We found out who wrote that, we find out which of these dirt bags killed the other dirt bags." Officer Johnson spat on the floor.

Officer Song threw up his arms, "You'll ruin evidence."

Officer Johnson shrugged. He looked over his shoulder at the other bodies behind him. "Song, you think the guy running the clinic usually shares his secrets?"

"Dunno. Probably not."

"Then who wrote the sixth secret."

"Dunno."

Johnson chuckled, "Something in the breadbox maybe."

"I'm sure it did," Song rolled his eyes and poked Carl's stomach with a pen, "Now, time to get serious, Johnson. Captain will kill you if you turn in another hokey report."

"Hey," Johnson stepped back and held up his hands, "I'm just saying this isn't the first breadbox in a crime scene like this. Gotta notice patterns."

Song stopped poking at Carl and looked up at Johnson, "Just start bagging evidence, mmkay?"

"Alright, alright," Johnson smiled, "But you bag the breadbox."

Breadbox

Breadbox was a nickname Joey had earned his freshman year. Well, not earned, but been gifted. He got it one day when he was paying for his lunch and a $100 bill fell out of his front pocket.

"Whoa! That's some bread you're packin'," Louis said, "What are you? Some sort of breadbox?" Louis was one of the more popular students at Pine View High so the name stuck.

Joey was now a senior and his stomach was one massive, jittery butterfly.

"We're counting on you, Breadbox," Coach Ellis' voice haunted his thoughts, "Whether we win or lose, it's up to you."

Joey slammed his car door shut and then checked to make sure it was locked. He didn't think his beat-up Honda Civic would tempt any car thief, but you had to safe. He made his way to the football field, where his team would be playing their rivals, Gorman High School. Not only what is the rivalry game, but it was also the Homecoming game.

"You're late." Coach Ellis said.

The rest of his teammates were already on the field warming-up. Coach Ellis started lecturing Joey about the importance of responsibility and how his teammates were counting on him and blah blah blah. Joey practically had this speech memorized.

After a quick warm-up, the pep band started playing the national anthem. Then, Gorman kicked the ball and the game began. As Joey took his position on the field for the first play, the crowd roared and then started chanting, "Breadbox, Breadbox, Breadbox!" Slowly at first, but it got faster and faster the longer it went on.

The ball was hiked. Joey caught it, looked up, and saw a Gorman player jumping over Louis.

The next thing Joey saw was a giant poster that said, "Get Well Soon, Breadbox," taped to a light pink wall. He shook his head. The poster was still there. He was lying in a bed.

The sound of slow footsteps coming echoed in the hallway outside his room. They were getting closer. Soon, Coach Ellis walked through the door.

"Breadbox? You awake?"

"Yeah."

A wide grin and came over Coach Ellis' face. His eyes became shiny with tears. "Hallelujah," he whispered.

"Did we win the game?"

"That was three days ago. And besides, that doesn't matter."

It was important to Joey. So he asked again, "But did we win?"

"No."

There was a long silence.

"How could we have won with you unconscious?" Coach Ellis sat on a stool near the bed and continued, "I told you, Breadbox, whether we won or lost it was up to you."

La Maie

17 June

Today I went down to the seaside. There was a large antiques market going on, so I stopped by and walked through all the stalls. The merchandise was mostly useless old junk. There were several stalls of old photographs, and most of the rest was dedicated to furniture and kitchenware. Nothing really caught my attention until towards the end. One stall was selling old French antiques—brass molds for cakes and madeleines. In one corner sat a small, wooden breadbox. Twelve dollars. Something about the dusty old box drew me in. I had to buy it. I was never so happy to remember my wallet on my little walks. I am the proud new owner of an antique French breadbox. It now stands in the cramped kitchen of my studio apartment.

18 June

I think I may be getting sick. I couldn’t sleep last night, and my appetite is lost. It’s strange, because all my dreams were of bakeries and flour. I had a nightmare that I made a rye bread but it couldn’t get it to rise. The yeast was bad, but it was somehow disturbing in the dream.

I cleaned my new breadbox. It’s still as plain as it looked yesterday, but small engravings on the side are now more apparent. It’s funny; the design doesn’t look that French, but the writing on the top is clear—“le pain.” I think I’m going to bake bread tonight after dinner, so I can keep something in my new breadbox.

23 June

Homemade bread is the best, especially when kept fresh in a breadbox. I’ve eaten three loaves already, but I don’t think I can make anymore for a while. I don’t actually remember eating all of that bread, but I’ve been a little out of it lately. I haven’t been sleeping. I guess my zeal for bread and my breadbox has gotten a little out of hand; I’ve been having odd nightmares about bread. I even dreamt last night that my breadbox was trying to haunt me in my sleep! Maybe I’m just going crazy.

24 June

Last night was the worst. What sleep I got was full of nightmares. This time, I was choking on bread. Or tripping over the breadbox, mysteriously placed over the stairs down the four flights of stairs to the lobby of my apartment complex. Every other hour, I awoke, fearing a bread related death. I think I need a vacation. I bought plane tickets to Iowa. I’m going for a week. Surrounded by nothing but fields… What a vacation it will be.

July 14

What a pleasant vacation! America’s Heartland. It revived me. No more nightmares since I left. I just got in yesterday, somewhat late. I toured farms and slept in barns and felt a little like Kerouac, living for a short while on the road.

The State Fair isn’t until August, but I was fortunate enough to find a small county fair. It was interesting. There was a small roller coaster that looked like it would fall over if I got on, but it didn’t. That was lucky. There was also a small tent that housed a sleepwalker and a hypnotist. The sleep walker was freaky. He stumbled around the stage like a zombie, and even ate and drank a small snack—bread, cheese and water. The hypnotist tricked some poor girl into thinking she was half cat. All in all, it was an entertaining little show. It certainly took my mind off of things, and I feel much better. Actually, I haven’t checked out my breadbox since I got back. I should bake some more bread—I was thinking a multigrain boule.

16 July

I’ve been sleeping better, but I don’t feel well again. Maybe it’s depression from being unemployed. Maybe I really am going crazy. I’ve had more dreams about the breadbox again. They’re not nightmares anymore, but I can’t say they’re pleasant dreams either. I think I might be sleepwalking. Rather, sleep-eating. The bread I make disappears faster than I can keep making it. I’ve had to switch from buying yeast packets to buying food storage sizes. I keep it in the freezer, and my arms have definitely gotten more toned from all the kneading. Maybe tonight I’ll make rolls. Refrigerator rolls, like Mom used to. And I’ll keep track of how much I eat during the day to see if I really am sleep-eating.

17 July

I ate 3 rolls, one at lunch and two at dinner.

18 July

I woke up, and three more rolls were missing. I weighed myself, too, to see if I was gaining weight from all my nighttime eating. Still 150. I’m 29 years old, and no one has told me that I sleep walk. Things are curious.

18 July

All the rolls are gone. I made two dozen. I don’t know what’s happening to them. I’m starting to doubt that I sleepwalk. Has someone broken into my house? I wish I had a cat, so I could blame the disappearance on something rational. How can bread disappear overnight like this?

24 July

It’s the breadmaker. It’s haunted. I know. I saw it… I saw it. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t believe it otherwise. Last night, I was up late, talking to a friend on the phone, and I walked into the kitchen late. Noises were coming from the countertop—kind of like a grumbling noise, a little like a hushed blender. The cookie I left in there as dessert after dinner was thrown out. Right before my eyes. One second, the breadbox was still, the next the lid lifted and the cookie flew across the counter. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do.

25 July

I’m crazy. A haunted breadbox? There’s no way. That just can’t be true. It’s the market. The economy has driven me crazy. Maybe I’ll move back home, like my Mother offered a month ago, when I had first lost my job. I need to do something to get my sanity back. Maybe I’ll give up bread for a little while, in the mean time.

28 July

It’s the breadbox. I know it’s the breadbox. It has to be. It bit me… I mean, I was going to put it in the cupboard, since I’ve decided to abstain from bread for a while. Why keep it out if I’m not using it? Especially since it seems to be the object of my insanity? I went to pick it up, and the lid somehow managed to slip over my fingers. It pushed down, hard. It hurt. I pulled my hand out, and it left me alone. I don’t know what to do about this. How can I dispose of a haunted breadbox? Maybe I’ll google it.

30 July

I’ve done it. I found out how to fix it. The owners of my apartment complex made us all sign insurance… including fire insurance. So, tonight, I borrowed my ex-girlfriend’s straightener. I plugged it in and dropped it in a pile of newspapers. That thing almost started a hundred fires before, whenever she would forget to turn it off. There’s a hole in my carpet to prove it. This time, the fire won’t be stopped. The whole apartment will go down, breadbox included. And I’ll move in with my parents, find a new job, and move on with my life.

But, if the breadbox really is haunted… The fire won’t work. It will keep going on, finding another fool to take it into its home, feed it bread… Of course, I’m such a fool! I just burnt everything down! I just hope I never see another breadbox again…