They hand her a box.
“You can fit. You will fit.” They speak to her as if she is a toddler.
She stares them down, and fits into the box.
They close the lid, and click the latch.
She fights; throwing punches and screams that rebound across the room.
They open it, and hand her a smaller box.
“You are meant to be in this box,” They say to her.
This one is tighter, but she fits into it. They hit the latch, and their laughter weaves through her screams
They hand her a small box, the kind I would place loose change in.
“This is the only box for you. It is the only way. You must fit,” They say.
She picks herself up and fits herself in.
When the latch is closed and the lock clicks, it is silent.
The ghosts of the laughter lazily fall through the air, light as feathers.