Box

He sold shoes for a living.

Not a glamorous job by many standards, certainly not his own. But like most people in old classics, a series of bad decisions had led to his present state of utter and complete unambition. He stared at the racks of shoe boxes stacked on the shelves in front and mused about the other possibilities. The thing with those were that they resurfaced ever so often, reminding him of a time when he would've grabbed with both hands.

Today he merely averted his eyes, hunching his shoulders in an effort to disappear. His bosses offered him raises and managerial positions. But he turned it all down.

Too used to living in the obscurity that comes with being an inconsequential individual, he liked his life of silences and loneliness.

It is the truest statement of all, a heart not given will never break.

And so he guarded it zealously, not even allowing it to bond with his job.

But aloofness of this kind comes with a price.

He rarely spoke, if ever, preferring to stay in the shadows instead.  Bringing out boxes was his only job and he did it well. Stuck to doing that only. Nobody quite understood how often those boxes spoke back to him. They were his friends.

Even to his own ears it sounded maniacal. This oddity that was a relationship with boxes.

Well one box in particular. She was a beauty. More pure and untouched than any he'd ever seen. And for the first time in his life, he fell in love. Gave his heart- to that box.

And everyday he looked suspiciously at customers. Fat women with fleshy calves would eye the box, touch it. His hands clenched, he would watch them, an insane jealously bubbling deep inside. After the store closed he would run the clean cloth over and top, again and again. Until the odor of those fingers had been completely extinguished.

But one day it went too far.

A beautiful woman, and even he with his blinding love for the box had to admit that she was gorgeous, touched the shoes inside. She twirled around the store, her eyes bright.

He pushed his box to the side, lest she walk over it, and admitted to himself that the shoes looked good on her dainty feet. Panic clutched his chest.

"No. She can take the shoes. I'll put it in a different box and give them to her," he muttered to himself, unsteady arms reaching for the box.

Before he could hold it though, the salesman picked it up. "I'll pack them for you," he said, taking the shoes from the pretty lady's hands. The salesman saw the back of the shoe and then peered closely at the box.

He tried to reign in his horror at the sight of someone else touching his box. But he consoled himself. A different box could just as easily be arranged. Yes?

The breath whooshed out of him, as the salesman used the abnormally long nail of his smallest finger to scratch at the number label. A film of dark red suddenly fell in front of his eyes.

"Nobody messes with my box," he bellowed.

Carnage.

When sense returned, he saw his bloodied hands holding the box, as he walked out of the mall.

The police had him an instant later. They tried to separate him from his box, and in retaliation he punched them. Fought them. Kicked and screamed.

The officer holding his box threw it aside, launching at him to beat him into submission.

His eyes closed over in pain as the first blow landed, but he witnessed in tearful heartbreak as a car drove over his precious box. Crushed it to a pulp.

And just like that- all the fight leaked out of him.

"My box," he wailed, "My precious."

They charged him with shoplifting.