You've Got Mail

it came in the post this morning.
the brown parcel tape looked old and dirty. there were stamps all over it in languages that didn't look like languages. addresses were covered up by addresses which covered addresses. an endless record of the journey of this box. there was no return address on it, just some printed white paper that had been taped over some other address. printed with my address and my name. my house.
what if it was a bomb? what if it was a severed head? i've seen the movies and i've read the papers. i know what happens. i know about things like this. i took a small but sharp knife from my kitchen and gently pierced the tape. i ran the blade down the box and i could almost see the dust float out from the open wound i had just cut. like time escaping.
i opened the two flaps with hesitance. i was expecting a never ending darkness. an abyss or a mystery. because this is such a random thing, whatever i could create in my head would always be six million miles from what is. i smell all the places the box has been. as if all these cultures and languages and sights and smells have all just disappeared up my nose and into my body. pearing out of the box is something black. it's a camera. one of those old polaroid ones, that print them there and then. it looks quite old. i take it out, examine it a little, and turn my attention to the book that was beneath it. cast in a deep red leather bind, the book is dusty and looks quite old. i lift it out, blow off the dust, watch what could be part of the sahara or bondi beach float away, and open it. the front pages tells me that this box is a well travelled box. it will have been all around the world and each time you recieve it, you must take a photo of yourself, stick it in the book and write a message. a message to the world. then pack it all up and send it to someone far away. either someone you know, or get an address at random, just dont put in a wrong address because the postal service will take it away and destroy it.
inside the book i can see men, women, black and white, rich and poor. families. couples. singles. men with dogs, women with cats, adults with their kids, with their parents, with their friends. each of them with a message.
Laura is 34 and says hello to everybody out there.
Seth is 17 and wishes for world peace.
Julie and Gordon both love their kids.
Andrea and Micheal both love God.
Phillip wants to wish good health to the world.
Alex wants to know if anyone can send him some spare cash.
and then i turn the page. Erin has a shaven head. She has big, soup dish eyes, and a small thin smile. her head is one colour and one tone. the smile in the picture looks terribly forced. below it is the simple line, "i want everyone to be happy".
i noticed that the picture is slightly raised. i pick at the side of the polaroid and it comes loose. taped behind the picture are a few more. It's Erin. she has an expression of immeasurable sadness painted on her and the glaring white in her eyes contrasts with the bluey purple bruises all over her body. on the little white strip on each polaroid she has written a little note.
"this made my daddy happy"
"this made my boyfriend happy"
"this made my mummy happy"
"i just want everyone to be happy"
"i'm not allowed to tell anyone because it will make everyone sad"
"i just want to keep everyone happy"

i hold the camera at arms length.
i glue my photograph on the next page. i surround it with all the photographs of Erin. all the slices of life. the snapshot of Erin brusied. the snapshot of Erin cut, bleeding, sobbing, hurting. the snapshot of me, the camera at arms length, tears streaming down my face. all i write on my page is "I want everyone to know what's really happening". and i tape it back up and i send it on.
i'm not going to let people get away with these sort of things anylonger.
i'm not going to keep everyone happy.