The Box on the Right
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In the trunk of a 67 black Chevy Impala, under a secret compartment on the right hand side is a box. A worn shoebox, that once held a pair of Wrangler size ten brown steel toed boots. The edges are bent, one side pushed in, and the paper is peeling off the top from spilled holy water. The contents of the box move with the motion of the car, as they bump and roll inside their tiny tomb. There is a name written on the box in a messy scrawl and black maker. The black now a light grey color from age. The name, Sammy Winchester.
Inside this old torn shoebox are the contents of Sam's entire life. Items collect from a lifetime of secrets and lies. From a lifetime of pain and blood. From a lifetime of sweat and tears. From a lifetime of love and loss. Inside this box is Sam Winchester's life.
A teddy bear, that no longer has its stuffing. One eye replaced by a blue button. Blood staining the left paw. The bear has been through tears, snot, and mud while it was attached to a chubby little fist. The bear has seen sweat, blood, and pain while it was embraced in the arms of a child. The bear once chased away darkness, now it stays in the darkness of the box.
A knife with a five inch blade. A memento from his first hunt. From his first kill. The blade now dull, is covered in brown rust and something else. Blood. Blood, that was never washed from its slick silver surface.
A small leather bound book. When Sam was fifteen the book never left his side. Always in a back pocket, or thrown inside a backpack. The pages are now yellow with age, and cracked from constent use. The words are incantations and exorsisms. From Greek to Latin. The words marked in his mind, ingrained in his soul. A part of him.
"Here geek," Dean had said, as he threw the book in Sam's face one morning. "Happy Birthday," shouted out from behind the closed bathroom door.
Pictures. Pictures of a baby Sam, of baby Dean. Pictures of Dean and him. Pictures of his dad and them. Pictures of his dad. Pictures of Jess, and other college friends. Pictures of his mom.
A small jewlery box. The outside once a velvet blue, now a blackend mess. The smell of smoke still lingers on its surface. Sam knows what's inside, though he never has looked since that day. If he shakes it, he can here it rattle inside. From memory he remembers the shape of the stone, and the bright silver band. From memory he imagines himself placing the ring on Jess's finger. Sam may never open the box. Sam feels he may never want to.
Inside an old shoebox, that once held a pair of Wrangler size ten brown steel toed boots, now holds the life of Sam Winchester.
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