The Thinking Box
Matthew Rosenbaum


It was a cold and gray morning, the perfect weather for Boy's first day of school. Boy, like all other children, had a name - Samhain Anderson - but no one ever called him by it. Even his parents called him Boy, almost as if his name was a burden to remember. Like all children, Boy was more than reluctant to go to school, and his slim frame trembled slightly as he opened the door to the first day of the rest of his childhood. There were ten other children in his class, six boys and four girls. The girls had already formed into a tight circle; they were playing one of the many games that children play. The boys had already formed into a pack and had starting building a fortress out of large, cardboard bricks. As Boy approached them, the boys went into a huddle, then formed a line, all holding their bricks.


Then one shouted, "Stop right there injun, dis here's our territory!" Boy, slightly taken aback, replied, "I'm not an injun, I jus' want to play with you guys." The boys glanced at each other, one shouted, "We don play wit dirty injuns!" then hurled his brick. The brick bounced off Boy, but the other boys all joined in, yelling, "Get 'im!".


They chased Boy twice around the room, hurling their cardboard missiles with all their might. Finally, the teacher arrived, and all activity stopped; the rest of day went by without incident, save for the occasional child throwing something at Boy while Teacher's back was turned.


Naptime was after lunch, right before the end of the day. As boy closed his eyes, he felt that something was wrong. Then he realized where he was. Boy looked around. He was in a room, but the walls were pure white, and it was hard to see where the walls began or where he was going because of the unchanging vision of whiteness. Using his hands, Boy felt that the walls were about 6 feet long, and he couldn1t feel any ceiling. Boy reached out andtouched the wall, the point under his finger turned black, as if some unseen brush had painted its darkest color on the white canvas. Boy traced a circle with a finger, then he added three dots in the appropriate places for a face. With his fingers his traced out the sticklike body of a human, legs, arms, and body. Then, finally he added a downward facing C under the nose of his Boy. This mouth seemed to convey a sense of sadness, loneness and rejection. With this, Boy paused, he stared at his man, trying to see what was missing. Without another word Boy drew 2 lines over the eyes, forming a V. This simple V over the eyes took on a menacing persona, one that was angry at all the things the mouth was turned down for. With his work completed, Boy turned away and found himself back in school.


Throughout the year, every day, Boy was spat upon by his peers, and every day a new drawing took its place on a wall in the room. Time passed, days became weeks, weeks became months and months became years. It seemed that every day, no matter where or when that there was always a gang of kids attacking him, with words or even with physical blows. By his 11th year Boy could touch the ceiling of his room, and it seemed that the room was about six-foot square. As Boy's antagonists grew and changed, so did the drawing on the room. As Boy grew, he drew more detailed pictures than his simple man, but perhaps his first explained what all the others said most plainly. Stick men became detailed paintings of men, some had weapons, to ward of unseen foes, but they all had one thing in common. If you removed all the shading and details from the faces, you would be left with that same downward C and V over the eyes. Boy drew all over the walls, and onto the ceiling, drawings overlapped other drawings, until it became difficult to tell one from the other.


It was a day like any other in Boy's 17th year. Perhaps Jake (a very popular boy) was a tad more merciless in his abuse of Boy. Smacking him in the back of his head and laughing with his friends. Boy rubbed his head as he walked home, "Tonight" he thought "I will draw a special picture using Jake when I get to my room", the thought gave him a little comfort. When he got home,he did his homework and then fell into bed.


When he opened his eyes, he wasin his room, but something was wrong. The room, which had once been a pure white, was now pitch black: entirely covered by the drawings that had accumulated there over Boy's many years. Boy looked around, a panicked look in his eyes, searching for a spot to draw. As his eyes danced over the black walls, he spied it, it seemed like a small opening in the blackness. The opening seemed to lead into a space darker than the blackest night. It was then that Boy realized that the opening was in a familiar shape. Under a V, two black dot eyes stared. Boy screamed and took a step back, as he did he saw cracks forming in the black walls, cracks that led to a darker place. The last sight Boy saw as he fell through into a darker, colder blackness was the silhouette of his man.


Boy awakened with a gasp, something was wrong but he felt fine. Boy showered, got dressed and walked to school through the dark fog. He was loading his books into his locker when a hand grabbed him from behind. Jake, with a dumb grin on his face was staring down at Boy. Just looking at that face, a feeling swelled up from Boy. He tried to control it.


"Well good morning shithead, time for a morning smacking" said Jake, reaching down to pick Boy up by the collar. Look at Jake, his eyes, blue as the Arctic Ocean, and far colder, and behind those eyes was a head, filled with venom and hate. Boy rose quickly and, the feeling finally winning over, reached out and gripped Jake's throat. Jake's cruel eyes widened in astonishment and desperately tried to break Boy's grip. But his grip remained like steel and it tightened. Somewhere, under an angry V and two beady eyes, a mouth smiled.

copyright Matthew Rosenbaum 2000