Vignette - Pretty Boxes

Nanette ran across the office, high heels clacking on the tile floor, arms pumping and red hair flowing back. She was so, so, so, late. She needed to be at the orphanage with her coworkers in two hours and there was still so much to do.

She stopped at the door to the conference room, which now had a crayon made sign on it, and written in between candy cane poles it read “NORTH POLE FACTROY.” Nanette ignored the misspelling and walked in as composed as she could, smoothing her hair to her shoulders. She had joined the party commission on a whim as a way to get to know people at work better, but had no idea it would be so involving.

“Sorry,” she said to the two other women in the room, “I got stuck in a meeting.”

Nanette felt a little awkward standing in the room with them. They had both dressed in festive elf attire, all red and greens and sparkles on their cheeks. And Nanette . . . wasn’t. She didn’t know they were supposed to dress up, and tugged nervously at the hem of her dress.

“Oh, that’s OK. We ran into a bit of a problem of our own.” Kelly, the one mostly in green, said.

“What’s that?” Nanette asked.

“We forgot to get boxes for the toys.”

“What?!” Nanette shouted, “but we have to be at the orphanage thing in like 2 hours.” She mentally calculated, too, that it would take an hour to get there.

“There’s no need to shout, we have a solution.” Greta, the woman in mostly red, said.

“Great! What is it?”

“You are.”

Nanette scrunched up her forehead, “I am? I can’t wrap 20 presents in one hour, especially since we have to . . .”

Kelly smiled and then she broke into a little poem, “You are just present boxes, filled with toys, you must hold presents for good girls and boys.” And the way she said it, looking right at Nannette, her blue eyes locked onto hers, the woman was compelled to repeat what she said.

“I am just present boxes, filled with toys, I must hold presents for good girls and boys.” Nanette heard what sounded like the crinkle of wrapping paper and looked down at her right hand. It wasn’t there anymore and had been replaced by a square box wrapped in red paper and gold ribbons.

“Wha . . . what’s going -- Under the tree is where I’ll go, Pretty little boxes wrapped up with bows.” More sounds of cutting and crinkling, and this time Nanette watched as her torso split into three large boxes, each wrapped in colorful zig-zagging paper. Each decorated by sparkling bows, and held together by taught ribbons.

“This is impossible, this is -- I am just present boxes!” Nanette shouted, louder and prouder than she ever had before. She felt the spell worm its way into her and through her. It wrapped her up just like the gold and red ribbons wrapping around her. “I must hold presents for good girls and boys!” She lost track of what happened exactly. She couldn’t quite make sense of it because her body tumbled apart and fell to the ground at the feet of her coworkers. No. No, that wasn’t right. They weren’t her coworkers anymore; they were her owners. As long as Nanette was present boxes she belonged to them.

One by one, they picked up the boxes that were Nanette’s body and filled her up with toys. Nanette lost count -- she couldn’t count -- of how many boxes she had become and how toys she wrapped. She could hear the women talking, but couldn’t understand the words.