Dress Nice, Decline Loudly

“People say you always have a choice. But they never stick around to watch you try picking between a knife and a blindfold.”

Entering my room, the sight that greeted me halted me in the doorway—a small, plain brown cardboard box perched dead centre on my bed. It sat there as if it belonged, like it had always been there, waiting. At first glance it was innocuous, the kind of packaging that could’ve contained anything from vitamins to vintage vinyl. But I knew better. The sheer ordinariness of it made its presence more sinister, not less.

It was from Leigh. Of course it was.

There was no note, no branding, no frilly tape—just that maddeningly blank box and the quiet assertion of its placement: on my bed. That detail alone set every nerve on edge.

He’d told me once, back when our conversations had still held a veneer of pleasantries, about how he had activated his Portal in my room. I remember how he’d said it—as if it were a technical upgrade rather than what it actually was: an invisible door opened in my most private space. His explanation had been filled with reverence, like a priest detailing some sacred rite. The Portal Key, he’d said, needed a spatial tether. Once registered, he could use it to pass between this world and Clivilius at will. My room, apparently, had become one of those tethers.

At the time, I’d been quietly horrified. There was something too clinical in the way he’d described it, too casual in the way he’d justified it. The idea that someone could simply appear in my bedroom—without knocking, without warning—was more than unsettling. It was a violation, plain and simple. Not just of physical space, but of mental sanctuary. My room was mine. A fortress. A cave. A cocoon I shed the world inside. And Leigh had walked right through the walls of it, like they meant nothing at all.

At best, it had been creepy.

At worst… it had felt predatory.

But time has a way of softening edges—or perhaps dulling instincts. The more we spoke, the more I learned, the more the weight of his role began to explain, if not excuse, the intrusion. Guardians didn’t live normal lives. They weren’t afforded the luxury of boundaries. There was always some crisis, some shadow in the corner of the map demanding attention. And his presence, his access, had saved me more than once.

Trust had crept in quietly. Slowly. Like moss reclaiming stone.

Now, looking at that box on my bed, I felt the weight of that evolution settle across my shoulders. I thought of all the times I’d come home to find Leigh already inside. No fanfare. No noise. Just there. Waiting. Those moments had always felt surreal, like stepping into a scene someone else had written. In retrospect, they carried a different kind of chill—not because I’d been there with him, but because sometimes… I hadn’t.

There was something far more disturbing about the thought of him arriving in my absence. No conversation. No context. Just silence and his presence lingering in the air, unseen but unmistakable.

It meant he'd stood in this room, in the quiet, and looked around.

And today, he’d left something behind.

I stared at the dull package resting inconspicuously on my bed. No larger than a shoebox, it sat there like a misplaced relic, something that didn’t belong yet refused to be ignored. Unmarked by any branding, free of decoration, its silence spoke louder than any printed label ever could. There was something about it—about the way it occupied the space—that unsettled me.

I reached out and lifted it. The weight startled me—heavy and compact, too substantial for its size. It wasn’t the sort of weight that made sense. It felt... symbolic. As if what I was holding wasn’t just a physical object, but something intangible too. A burden. A choice. A message.

My eyes scanned the surface, and there it was—scrawled in thick, black permanent marker, uneven and slightly smeared, as though written in haste: Charlie Claiborne.

The name meant nothing to me. Not at first. My brow furrowed as I said it aloud, tasting the syllables for familiarity. “Hmm.” It sounded vaguely literary. Southern, maybe. American. There was a clipped strength to it, the kind of name you’d expect on a courthouse plaque or carved into a mailbox on a long, dusty road.

But to me, it was a cipher. No context. Just a string of letters on cardboard that pulsed with significance I couldn’t yet translate. "This should be interesting," I murmured, the irony in my voice paper-thin.

Still holding the box, I turned slightly, pacing the short stretch between the edge of the bed and my dresser. My mind gnawed at the implications. Why this task? Why me? Leigh had always been a fortress of rationale—each action, no matter how eccentric, carried a logic buried somewhere beneath its surface. But today, this? Delivering a mystery package to an unknown recipient, dressed for some unspecified occasion? The lines between caution and paranoia blurred, and I wasn’t sure on which side Leigh now stood.

As I placed the box back down, something caught my eye—a small, pale envelope taped to the side, partially obscured by the edge of the cardboard. I peeled it off slowly, the tape giving way with a faint hiss, revealing a shallow tear where the edge of the box had split. I ran my finger over the frayed seam, pressing it flat, as if to undo a damage I hadn't caused.

On the envelope, in that same impatient scrawl, two words:

DRESS NICE.

That was it. No explanation. No time. No context.

A chill passed through me, subtle and sharp, as if the words themselves had teeth.

My stomach twisted. What the hell is Leigh expecting me to do? The directive rang with implication. It wasn’t a casual suggestion. It was a command. Dress nice—not just for the sake of appearances, but because what lay ahead demanded it. Professionalism? Elegance? Disguise? There was no way to know, and that uncertainty scraped against the inside of my chest like a blade.

I set the envelope down, carefully, almost reverently, and stepped back from the box like it might move if I got too close again.

Whatever this was... it wasn’t just another errand.

It was a performance.

And Leigh expected me to play the part.

Conceding a little of myself, I plonked myself back down on the bed. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and collecting the envelope, extracted the small, thick piece of card. It slid out with a silky whisper, heavier than I expected, its crisp edges biting faintly into my fingertips. The invitation before me was elegant—excessively so. Its heavy cardstock exuded importance, embossed lettering shimmering faintly under the overhead light like it had something to prove. Even the weight of it carried a kind of arrogance, a tactile promise of exclusivity and expectation that set my teeth on edge.

A black-tie charity fundraiser cocktail event at MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art.

The words seemed to leap off the card with cruel intent, each line more outrageous than the last. A gala. At MONA. Leigh couldn’t have chosen anything more antithetical to my entire existence if he’d tried.

“Shit no,” I blurted aloud, my voice a startled exhale wrapped in disbelief. The card flopped onto the bed beside me as I stood up abruptly, like distance from it might somehow lessen the absurdity. Leigh knows I don’t do events like this. I could barely handle dinner with more than three people, let alone an evening of forced smiles and vapid conversation with strangers dressed in tailored perfection and charitable superiority.

The idea of me swanning about among Hobart’s social elite, draped in whatever passed for formalwear in the back of my wardrobe, made my skin crawl. It wasn’t just the dress code—it was the entire performance. I wasn’t built for that kind of spotlight.  Not anymore. And Leigh, of all people, should have known that.

Fuelled by a sudden pulse of determination—or perhaps just indignation—I grabbed my phone from the windowsill. My fingers danced across the screen, brushing aside a clutter of notifications with the same dismissive energy I reserved for small talk. I found the last message from Leigh and stared at it, the weight of his expectations solidifying in my gut like wet concrete.

With a breath that trembled slightly, I typed out my reply, each word infused with a stubbornness I clung to like armour:

Sorry, can’t do it.

I hovered for just a moment, thumb suspended in the air. And then I hit send.

Or tried to.

The spinning blue circle appeared beside the message, a limbo of uncertain intent, blinking like a warning light. I stared at it, frowning, the beginnings of irritation knitting my brow.

It didn’t send.

My phone was still connected to Wi-Fi. The signal bars were full. Nothing should’ve been wrong. I tilted my head, watching the little spinning dot mock me, refusing to deliver what should have been a clean, clear no.

I don’t normally have reception problems in my room.

The thought brushed lightly against my mind at first—an idle observation. But as the seconds dragged out and the message remained stubbornly undelivered, the whisper turned into a murmur. A creeping unease, subtle but insistent.

Something wasn’t right.

Finally, the relentless spinning halted—but not with the resolution I had so desperately hoped for. Instead, an exclamation mark glared back at me, bold and accusatory, punctuated with the taunting phrase: Message Undelivered. The words blinked beneath it like a neon sign in the dimness of my room, casting their cold glow over my mounting frustration.

"Shit," I huffed into the silence. My voice seemed too loud, too final, echoing off the walls of a space that felt suddenly tighter, more claustrophobic. I stared at the message again, willing it to change, but knowing—knowing—that it wouldn’t.

"He's cancelled his number again." The words left my mouth before I even realised I was speaking them aloud. They hung in the air like smoke, bitter and lingering. Of course he had. Leigh’s habit of burning digital bridges behind him wasn’t new, but somehow, in this moment, it felt personal. Like the door had been shut on me specifically, leaving me stranded on the wrong side of some invisible line.

Still, I wasn’t ready to give up—not yet. With a flicker of hope, or perhaps pure stubbornness, I tapped the screen to resend the message, holding my breath as though that would somehow sway the outcome. But the reply came swift and brutal. Message Undelivered, again. Final. Irrefutable.

I let the phone drop gently onto the bed beside me, its screen going black in what felt like a gesture of quiet contempt. That small rectangle, usually so vibrant, a lifeline to everything outside myself, now felt like a dead weight. Useless. A reminder of how quickly control could slip through your fingers.

My eyes drifted once more to the package on the bed. That dull, brown box—so unremarkable in its appearance—seemed to loom now, radiating a quiet pressure. A silent demand. The choice was mine, and yet it didn’t feel like a choice at all. Not really.

Was not delivering it worth the risk?

The thought was a slow, creeping whisper in the back of my mind, curling around the edges of my resolve. I could ignore it. Pretend none of this existed. But I already knew I wouldn’t. Because I could still hear Leigh’s voice in my head—serious, calm, maddeningly sincere: Every action has an impact. Every decision has consequences.

Or some shit like that.

I rolled my eyes at the memory, but the truth was, I’d stopped scoffing at Leigh’s dramatics a while ago. As much as I wanted to dismiss him sometimes, his words stuck. Not like glue—more like thorns. Subtle, small, but impossible to ignore once they’d buried themselves under your skin.

And that was the worst part. Because, deep down, I knew he was right.

The phone on the dresser shattered the silence, vibrating violently against the wood with a buzz so abrupt it made me flinch. My heart leapt to my throat, thudding wildly as I spun to face it.

“Leigh?” I murmured to the empty room, a fragile wisp of hope rising in my chest like a balloon on the verge of bursting. Maybe, just maybe, this was my reprieve—my out. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to go through with this after all.

But the name that blinked onto the screen wasn’t Leigh.

Gladys: Holding a memorial service for Joel at Luke’s house 11pm tonight. I’ll pick you up.

My shoulders sagged, the hope evaporating like steam, leaving behind the heavy residue of fresh exasperation. A hollow sigh escaped my lips, and the familiar sensation of irritation began to simmer, low and steady, in the pit of my stomach. Another plan. Another obligation. Another bloody thing I was expected to show up for without warning, without input.

My thumbs moved instinctively, furiously tapping out a reply.

Beatrix: No I’ll come get you at 10:50.

The words appeared on the screen with the same clipped tone that echoed in my mind. It was a small act—insisting I’d drive instead of letting her come for me—but it was all I had in that moment to assert some sense of control. Control over something. Anything.

I dropped the phone onto the bed with a soft thud, the glow of the screen fading back into the quiet shadows of the room. My hand drifted to my hip as I exhaled sharply, eyes drifting to the invitation once again. My nose wrinkled.

“Looks like I’m going to some shitty charity function,” I muttered aloud, the words thick with reluctant bitterness. They hung in the air like smoke, laced with resignation and wrapped in the prickly cloak of defeat.

Because whether it was a fundraiser or a memorial, I no longer felt like I was being invited to anything—I was being summoned.