The Music Box / Wood Boy

When I was a child, I had a music box. It had the most beautiful, haunting melody.

I'd let it wash over me as I laid in the darkness. 

I'd sink the broken glass shards into my upper arms, cutting where I knew no one 

would see. I could keep my secret. I could feel alive in all the ways I'd ever imagined. 

I'd always wait until dark, so I'd be sure to be alone. After everyone else was in bed

and the house was beginning to fall asleep, the music box would come to life and so 

would I. As minutes became hours and scratches became wounds I'd watch the moon

travel her familiar path through the night sky. She'd kiss her cloud children as she passed by,

waiting for that tender moment when she and her husband the sun would collide for one kiss before they were to depart ways until the following morn. 

I treasured those moments where I would be dazzled.
They allowed me to explore darker aspects of myself and learn the truth of self. 
I pushed myself, physically and emotionally.
I learned what it means to seek salvation in something other than a toy;
Something that I could keep with me at all times and would be invisible to those around me.
I could bring my comfort anywhere and no one would be none the wiser.
I learned the power of true deceit and the seductive ways of lies. 

....

Windchimes blew against the unusually frigid winds of early March.

I almost collapsed when the two sensations collided violently within me.

In that moment I was taken back to 1998.
It was mid-November and hints of Christmas were beginning to fill the air. 

Some of the trees still had leaves on them, though they were soon to lose to the

frost of winter that had been making itself at home the past few days. 

I was bundled up in a jacket with gloves and a puff ball hat.

I was with my father.

We drove across a few cities over in his old truck so that we could collect wood

for the fireplace for his mate and for us.
We were on our third run, late into the afternoon. 

I remember how the sun, which was an odd orange colour, hung low in the sky and

illuminated everything with an off orange glow. 

I was reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

It was a present from my nan for doing so well in school.

I'd gotten top marks and was excelling, and she knew that I loved to read.
I'd read through all of my favourites in the school library which was small and she knew that

I was thirsty for more.

I couldn't wait until Christmas. 

I'd been promised a few new books to add to my little collection.

I let my thoughts drift away from the sun for a moment as I watched the 

buildings as we drove through the roundabout. 

My father laughed.

He loved driving through them.

Maybe it reminded him of the merry-go-round or another object from

childhood.
To this day, I still don't know the reasons why.
Part of me wants to know, the other part wants everything to stay locked away 

so that I can hold onto these memories of innocence and beauty.

I don't need the sins of my father staining and other moments; bleeding into 

times of innocence, corrupting them.

Maybe it's more than that.

Perhaps it's less to do with him and more to do with me. 

Maybe it's me not wanting to admit that things were not so simplistic, and buried

deep within me are subtle tones of the shadows that consumed me later on.

Out of the round about me went and down the street.

I watched a flag wrestle with the wind until we'd driven out of sight. 

I buried my face into my book until we'd arrived back at my father's co-worker's house.

I was painfully shy and had only met the man at a company Christmas party last year. 

I remembered his face, his hair, the way he smelled of cigarettes and cherry tarts. 

He waved to me and I waved back. 

My father jerked his fist at me and I knew that was my cue to drop the book and get my 

arse in gear unloading the wood. 

I loaded up my little arms and made my way across the front garden, through the tall wood

gate and into the little shed on the edge of the back garden.

The older wood in the shed seemed lonely. 

It's just a room for tree corpses.

And I'm only adding to it. 

My father yelled for me and told me to quit jerking off in the shed and that there was more 

shit we had to do today before we were expected home.

I ran back to him where he and his mate were still shit talking another co-worker and the boss.

I lifted three more loads before they came with loads themselves. 

We finished up in no time with the other two helping me. 

They shook hands when it was time to leave and the co-worker waved to me. 

I waved back, still far too shy to speak and also lost in thought about the shed.  

Sometimes I'll think back and the shed still haunts me. Maybe it was the way the clouds seemed to grow darker and thicker each time I made the journey. Maybe it was my fear of thunder and lightning as a child. My father showed me a programme where a man had been hit by lightening and he died, which scared the fuck out of child me. What kid wouldn't have been scared?! 

More of these memories are coming back, re-surfacing faster than ever. They're more than just little snippets or brief flashbacks. They run through my head and with each time the memory replays more detail emerges. I want them to keep coming, but at the same time, I don't. I'm curious but also unwilling to look at what might be uncovered, knowing a few possible outcomes, most of them bad.