The Box

By Vusurumarthi. Akshaya Srija

Logline 

A woman haunted by her childhood and stifled creativity confronts the lifeless remnants of her younger self, only to discover that the dreams she thought buried still fight to live. The Box is a psychological tale of repression, trauma, and the fragile persistence of hope.

Author’s Note 

The Box explores the inner world of someone whose childhood creativity and joy were suppressed by expectations and fear. It reflects how our past selves — our dreams, colours, and innocence — never fully disappear, even when buried. This story is a reminder that confronting our fears, no matter how dark, can awaken parts of us long thought lost, and that hope can survive even the most confined spaces.

The Box

                              She stood at the sink, staring at her hands smeared in blood, as if they didn’t belong to her. The water trickled slowly, mixing red into pink, swirling down the drain. She moved reluctantly, almost unwilling to let go of the stains. Then, with a long exhale through parted lips, she splashed cold water on her face. Her eyes were red and watery — not just from tears, but exhaustion. She looked up. In the mirror, her reflection gazed back, fragile and pale, her face stripped of all colour except the shadows under her eyes. Slowly, she pushed back her damp hair and tied it into a messy bun.

She walked into the bedroom.

Everything felt too quiet. She looked to the left, then to the right — and that’s when she noticed it. Blood. On the edge of the bed, on the floor, near the desk. Everywhere. Her expression didn’t change much. Almost like she’d expected it. Almost like she’d seen it before.

She reached for a blanket and began rearranging the mess around her. Then, with unsettling ease, she placed something heavy at the center of the blanket — the limp, lifeless body of a little girl.

Her movements were automatic. She wiped the floor clean, scrubbing hard against the stubborn red patches that had soaked into the tiles. All around her, the walls were covered in childish scribbles and colourful doodles. Bright colours. Innocent shapes. The kind that don’t belong beside death

And then, the voices began.

"Become a doctor, you'll be set."

"Become an engineer, you’ll be fine."

"No more scribbling and wasting your time on colours."

Her father's voice. Her mother’s voice. Echoes, not memories — commands.

As she dragged the body to a corner, the voices suddenly stopped. Silence. Heavy and unforgiving.

She stood under the shower, letting the water crash against her skin. Her eyes closed. The blood washed off slowly, crawling down the drain like guilt. The red stood out starkly against the white tiles. A moment of cleanliness. A moment of pause.

She sat before the mirror again, hair wet, clothes clinging to her. Her face had gone pale, but not empty. In the reflection, she saw the little girl. Drawing. Laughing. Pasting sketches on the wall. The way she used to.

Tears welled up, but she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she grabbed the closest object — a brush holder — and hurled it at the mirror. It shattered into jagged fragments. She stared at the broken pieces, then at her broken self.

She smiled.

A fake smile, stretched over grief. A mask she had worn too long.

A voice called out from outside the room — her mother.

“Dinner’s ready.”

She replied quietly, “Coming.”

She stood, wiped her face, walked over to the box in the corner. Gently, she picked up the girl’s body — her younger self — and placed it inside the box. Around the body, she placed the scattered drawings and artwork. Her dreams, her colours, her joy. One final act of care.

She shut the box, slid it into the darkest corner of the room, and walked out. She shut the door behind her.

Silence.

Then —

From inside the box —

A knock.

Another knock.

Then a faint, desperate banging.

The little girl was still alive. 

The box begins to shake.

Darkness.

By Vusurumarthi. Akshaya Srija