Open If You Have No Soul

By: Catherine Barrett

 

    Cynthia was given a shoebox by a stranger on the street. He was rough and raggedy, dirty and smelly. She was the opposite. She walked one way, he the other. Tucked under his arm was a box. He stopped in front of her.

    Before he could speak, she began her usual homeless person spiel. “I don’t have any money to give you, and I don’t have a cigarette and…”

    “Here,” he said. He held the box out to her. Unlike him, it was clean, almost pristine.  

    “I don’t want that.”

    She tried to step around him, but he moved in front of her. 

    “Listen…” she started. 

    “This is for you.”   

    “I don’t…” 

    He set the box at her feet and walked off. She watched him go. She glanced at the box, then back at the man, but he was gone. 

    She picked the box up. Two thin pieces of tape held the top on. On it were the words, OPEN IF YOU HAVE NO SOUL. 

    She rolled her eyes. She pulled the lid off and for a moment a bright light filled her vision. She shook her head and blinked several times until her vision cleared. The box was empty. Written on the bottom of the box were the words, IF OPENED GIVE TO SOMEONE ELSE. 

    “What a stupid joke.” Cynthia shook her head and tossed the box in the nearby bushes.

    The first person to give her a dirty look was a woman near her own age. She carried a purse on her shoulder and wore a nice dress and shoes. When Cynthia nodded, the woman frowned and pulled her purse tighter against her body. 

    “That was rude,” she snapped. 

    A man in a suit and tie gave her a wary look the next time. He was normally her type, but his frown made him look ugly to her. Her angry response came out in a raspy hiss. “You don’t have to be a jerk.” 

    She coughed several times, trying to clear her throat. She rounded a corner to see several businessmen in their nice suits. As they passed her, one pulled out his wallet.  

    “Here,” he said and held out a five-dollar bill. “Get you something to eat.” 

    “What?” she asked. “How dare you? Do I look like I need your money?”

    “I guess not,” he said and slipped the bill back into his wallet. The three men walked away.

    “What is going on?” she asked.  

    A block farther and she was in part of the town she knew well, one with high-end shopping centers with mirrored windows so the homeless can’t see in. It’s here where she saw herself as others now saw her. Her dress was dirty, hair disheveled, her skin appeared unclean, and her shoes had holes in the toes. She touched her image and screamed. She thought of the box the homeless man gave her.

    “No. No. This isn’t possible.” 

    Cynthia ran, not making eye contact with anyone, well-to-do or otherwise. She reached where she had tossed the box into the bushes. The box and lid were still there. She picked them up. Inside the box were the words, IF OPENED GIVE TO SOMEONE ELSE. The lid still read, OPEN IF YOU HAVE NO SOUL. 

*** 

    William was stopped by a stranger with a shoebox in her hands. She was rough, raggedy, dirty and smelly. 

    “Please, take this,” she said.  

    William smiled. “I can’t.” 

    “Why not?” 

    “I gave it to you.” 

    He winked and walked off.

 

**

Catherine Barrett is a quiet soul who rarely goes out in public. She has been writing for only a short while after dabbling in paintings and other forms of art for many years. She prefers being behind the scenes of most things, making magic happen for others. Catherine has two kids, two dogs and a husband she thinks might be a little off kilter.