The Three Containers

THE THREE CONTAINERS

Based on real life experiences.

Misty Tallant

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Misty Tallant

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1-The Room

Chapter 2-Why God? Why?

Chapter 3-Through the Bookshelf

Chapter 4-The Stepping Stones

Chapter 5-The Tunnel

Chapter 6-Pieces of Me

Chapter 7-The First Container

Chapter 8-The Second Container

Chapter 9-The Third Container

Chapter 10-Back in the Room

Chapter 11-Choices

About the Author

CHAPTER 1-THE ROOM

Sitting in an old wooden rocking chair in the corner of a dimly lit room, I stared out a dirty window, watching a life I used to be a part of continue on without me. Everything appeared distorted, as if I was looking out a window during a thunderstorm, except there was no storm, at least not a visible one. Seeing everyone laughing, loving and living brought up the all too familiar pain in the center of my chest, that place deep inside where our feelings live. As I watched them I wondered if I crossed anyone’s mind, even if only for a moment.

I mindlessly rocked back and forth, the rhythmic creaking and crunching on the worn floor beneath me were the only sounds I could hear, except the occasional loud knock from the wobbly hand rails that were in need of tightening. Rubbing my hands along the wood, which felt smooth under my fingers, I traced the grooves as if I had done this a million times. The chair felt molded to my body, making it feel as though it had been made specifically for me, and I had been the only one to ever sit in it.

The sun was shining outside but I felt a chill deep in my bones. The drab, torn curtains, eaten alive by time and neglect, hung lifeless, so I knew there was no draft coming from the window. The room was dark and cold and it was apparent that no fresh air had come through here in a long time.

A withered flower in an old glass vase with the crusted remains of the water it once held, sat on the windowsill, looking as lifeless as the curtains. As I looked closer at the dead, dried up flower, I could see a single green leaf. I wondered how it was even possible that any part of that flower could be alive. It looked like it would crumble at the slightest touch.

In what little light escaped into the room through the years of built up dirt on the window, I watched as thousands of dust particles danced in some endless loop, seeming to never fall. I sneezed as the dust tickled my nose, momentarily disrupting the loop, causing the shadows to shift, which made me think I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

As I looked around the room nervously, I had no idea where I was at. I felt a strange feeling of attachment, like I had been here before but I had no recollection of coming here, wherever here was. I wondered how long I had been in this room because I didn’t seem to have any sense of time. Through the fear I was beginning to feel, a part of me still felt safe, which was confusing.

I closed my eyes and tried to piece together the faint memories that hung just out of my reach, but the harder I tried to grasp them, the further away they became. Where do these thoughts go? I pondered how you can see something in your mind but not be able to make the connection with words. Did you momentarily have a brain malfunction? I finally let the thoughts go, thinking if I didn’t focus on them, they would return on their own. I opened my eyes and turned my attention back on the room, hoping I would see something that would jar my memory.

The room, ordinary in having four walls, felt more like a box with a lid. It was not extremely small but it felt confining. The ceiling was an ashy black and didn’t appear solid. It felt like it was bearing down on me but it also felt like there was no end to it. I began thinking any moment something would reach its arms out through the darkness and attempt to grab me. I quickly turned my attention back on to the room, hoping I could ignore the fear that was sending shivers down my back.

One wall was lined with bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling, each shelf crammed full of books, except for the top shelf that remained empty. The books at first glance appeared to be just ordinary books. Some books like My Way Out, Ashamed to Be Me and I Gave My Shoes to God stood out more than the others.

As I strained to read all the titles, I felt an inner connection, as if I had already read each one. Some of the titles were a series of four numbers, which I didn’t understand at first, and I didn’t make the connection until I had looked at a few more of the books. My heart started beating faster as I turned my attention to the first book on the far left bottom shelf, realizing the numbers on that book were the date of my birth. I quickly scanned all the titles, noticing that the books with numbers were all dates of significant times throughout my life. Other titles were of places I had been and some were names of people from my past and present life.

As I stared at the books trying to comprehend what all this was about, I could distinctly see within the center of the bookshelf what looked like the outline of a door frame that had been sealed off. Why would someone seal off the door? I hadn’t seemed too concerned about being in this room but now that I couldn’t see any direct way in or out I began feeling like the walls were closing in on me, the musty, stale air beginning to suffocate me. I started looking harder for a way out, hoping it wasn’t through whatever it was that loomed over my head. That’s when I noticed the ladder leaning up against the wall.

The ladder looked like it had been made out of large tree branches, a few smaller twigs still sprouted in various spots. I followed the steps up with my eyes and was afraid when I saw that it went on past the ceiling, disappearing into the darkness. There was no way I would willingly step up into wherever that ladder went. Was this the way I had gotten into this room? How could I have forgotten something like that?

As I stared up into the ceiling, I began hearing noises, like muffled voices. I turned my ear to the ceiling to try and hear better but decided I didn’t want to know if it was actual voices I was hearing. It only made my fear that something was going to reach down and grab me more of a possibility. I closed my eyes briefly to try and get the images out of my head.

I opened my eyes and looked at the wall directly in front of me, it was covered with dusty portraits, some crooked and a few looking like they were barely hanging on to the nail meant to hold it in place. I stared at the portraits wondering why I hadn’t noticed them before. It didn’t seem to be about the wall that they hung on, but more about the portraits, and when I focused on the portraits, it appeared to go on past the dimensions of the room. An entire lifetime of people that had impacted my life, their faces forever trapped inside a frame.

One in particular was covered with some kind of dark veil so I couldn’t see who it was, but the faceless portrait sent chills down my spine. Even with the lack of light that made it difficult to see who all the people were, I could sense familiarity. The same familiarity I felt with this room and with the books. It felt like my entire life was staring at me and I wondered if I had died and this was the beginning of my life review. My fate unknown, I began feeling anticipation that something was going to happen. I was like the dust particles; stuck in some kind of suspended animation.

Feeling like I was being watched, I looked over my shoulder at the wall behind me, half expecting something to jump out at me, and was surprised to see mirrors covering the entire wall. There was one large oval mirror that hung in the center and various others all around it in no particular pattern, all of them cracked, except for one. None of them were in frames, it was just the glass, and I wasn’t sure how the mirrors were hanging flush against the wall and wondered if they had been glued in place.

Even though I was nowhere in the line of sight, I was able to see my reflection in the large oval mirror. It had a crack running down the middle of it which made it look like a part of me was slipping away as my distorted reflection was staring back at me.

The mirrors all had different reflections of me from various times throughout my life and I would have thought they were actually portraits except they mimicked my every movement. It was strange to be seeing reflections of my younger self also mimicking the movements I was now making. I looked at the mirror that wasn’t broken and I saw my reflection as a five year old child, a time before the storm came to destroy me. It was the only reflection that was smiling.

There were glass shards from one of the broken mirrors scattered across the floor and even in the broken pieces I could still see my reflection. A reflection I couldn’t stand to have looking back at me. I turned away from the mirrors to try and escape the creepiness of all those eyes looking at me.

Next to the rocking chair, sitting under the window, was a small rickety table that held a book and a lamp. The lamp looked so old it probably hadn’t worked in a long time but I still tried pulling the little chain in hopes that it would turn on. When it didn’t, I looked for the cord to see if it was plugged in. It didn’t take me long to see the cord had been cut, the useless end dangling from the table. Nothing was making any sense.

I was then drawn to the book because it looked so out of place. The book, The Girl in the Corner, was charcoal black with swirls of gray that looked like storm clouds, and the title looked like it had been inscribed with something that made it appear illuminated. It looked old and worn from being read over and over and it was the only thing in the entire room that wasn’t covered in dust.

In the center of the room there was an old round braided rug that had several large bumpy areas and I wondered what might be lurking under there. As I was imagining what sort of creature it might be, I caught glimpses of light out of the corner of my eye. I looked around trying to find the source of it, hoping it might lead to a way out. But when I looked directly at certain points, I couldn’t see the light, so staying completely still, I tried to focus my eyes straight ahead to see if I could catch it as it happened out of my peripheral vision again.

My eyes were pulled to a large cobweb that hung in the corner above the portraits, the light making the silver strands shimmer. The undisturbed, intricate design and size suggested its host was not small and that the web had recently been made. I could feel the panic rising up from deep inside of me and I