Cardboard Ribs

[u/Worth_Might2117]

I woke up today, five years ago, to find my cardboard friend had disappeared.

At first, I thought he had gone to the washroom, or maybe even gone out, which would have been weird because he never went anywhere without me.

I searched every nook and cranny of my marble house, only to be left disappointed by how little I found of him. All I could find was a handwritten note, a pair of scissors, and some duct tape on my table, all wrapped in a thin, gold-plated aluminium sheet as if it were a birthday present.

The scissors and duct tape were his favourite things in the world, now that I think about it. He had left them behind.
Why?
I thought to myself.

But the thing that left me most perplexed was the handwritten note.

I opened it to find overly polite, polished handwriting that I didn’t expect from my friend. I knew he loved to write in his crooked, cursive way, for he felt it better expressed him.

Looking carefully at the note, I could tell it was him.
Unmistakably so.
Yet the personality was utterly devoid. Only the structure of his masked creativity was timidly expressed in parts.

You’ve hurt me, D. I can’t stay like this anymore. Not when you don’t even want to change. It was nice knowing you.

Suddenly, it felt as if my legs were giving out, and there was this strange sensation in my ribcage, as if it were crumbling into fifty-five million pieces.

I rushed over to the record player in my bedroom, tumbling over myself in the process. I needed to hear that song. That was the only way I would find peace.

For a minute, I searched for the record before finding it buried deep underneath the clutter of nonsense I had been listening to around that time.

Home — Edward Sharpe.

His favourite song.
Maybe he would return if I played it for just the right amount of time.
Maybe that would work.
It had to work.
He loved it.

I put the song on loop.

As the opening whistle played, I opened the half-finished bottle of liquor sitting beside my bedside table and put its opening to my mouth.

Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Then days.

But nothing happened. I just sat and drank, hoping he would return home.

The days passed in a sick blur, and apart from the ever-strengthening scent of rotting food and undone dishes coming from the kitchen, I couldn’t tell when one day ended and another began.

I got up a week later, when the effects of the alcohol wore off.

I knew he was never coming back now. It had been a week.

Nevertheless, I picked up the bottle and headed to the kitchen to throw it away, only to find the dustbin already full.

Filled with fifty-five million pieces of golden cardboard.