I love gifts just as much as the next guy but if I come home from work and find one on my porch with a huge grey bow on top but with no card or address, then forgive me but I’m not going to pick it up. I refuse to star in a sequel of Chucky.
For those who’ve not watched The Curse of Chucky. It’s about a doll delivered to a family in a box with no card or address (just like mine) and it slaughters them all; so trust me when I say, being gutted by a doll is not and will never be the ideal way I’d want to die.
I left it there and walked into my house and made myself a cup of coffee. Here’s a fun fact for you, when you live alone, in the middle of nowhere then a side effect is that you end up having a very overactive imagination. I imagined the doll crawling out of the box, twisting the door knob, crawling in into the kitchen, grabbing a knife and slitting my throat open.
I spent the next half hour, lighter fluid and a match box in my hand, watching the box like the crazy maniac I am, waiting for it to make any kind of movement. If it had, I’d have burned the entire house to the ground! Yeah, I’m that superstitious.
A phone call from my boss, that almost made me set fire on myself by the way, reminded me that I still had a job to go to in the morning so I gave up on the box and walked to my room and got into bed.
I couldn’t close my eyes. The idea of being caught off guard was looming in my mind making me restless so I got up, went back to the door and watched the box for another half hour. I don’t know what was scarier, the fact that the big grey bow was being illuminated by the moonlight or the fact that it’d moved a millimeter from where I’d left it.
When I realised that I probably looked like a psychopath watching a box that may or may have not been my imminent death, I downed a couple of sleeping pills and when they didn’t work, I downed a couple more and the next thing I knew, I was on a hospital bed surrounded by my family.
I had overdosed, which my loved ones interpreted as ‘I tried to commit suicide but failed.’ So it should come as no surprise to you that I wasn’t allowed to go back to work until I sought medical help. Which in lay man’s terms means: ‘I had to see a therapist or I was fired.’
Not only am I not allowed to live alone anymore, I’m not allowed to watch horror movies anymore either. I don’t think my therapist believed me when I told her the story; I bet she still thinks I tried to commit suicide.
The box? An acceptance gift from a golf club I’d applied to months prior to the incident. Talk about playing with someone’s mental health. Not funny.
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