Box’s Pandora

On this particular summer day, rain assaulted my suburban home. Winds, in full throttle, battered trees and electrical poles all over the town. The sun, dipping low into the horizon, cast a foreboding gloom across the sky. Seeping rays of gray filtered through my house’s many windows, blanketing me.

I sat on my couch, reading One-Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez; The electricity wasn’t working after all. As much as I enjoyed losing myself in Macondo, I infinitely preferred speaking to my friends—who could’ve been anywhere for all I knew. Closing the book, I looked out the window behind me—scaling the sofa to inquire of the outside. My eyes, fatigued from reading, struggled to focus. Unfolding before me, a visual cacophony screamed in the form of fluttering trees, uprooted street-signs, and gliding garbage-cans.

I called my parents over, sparing my sister the reality. It was unreal; The world outside unraveled before everyone, and all we could do was watch. My father bit his lips—as if cutting a flower in search of its sealed nectar—until blood stained
his already yellow teeth. He called for us to go downstairs, assuring us that he’d join us with my sister. Sensing his urgency, I took my mother’s wrist, ushering her downstairs.

Closing her office door, my mother slumped in her swivel-chair. with her back to the window, she grabbed her tasbeeh (Islamic prayer-beads) and started doing dhikr (prayer) with her eyes shut. While she wasn’t unconscious, she wasn’t truly there. Her intangible hands gleaned through each bead—gently plucking them like silver strings on a harp. An ethereal, otherworldly glow enshrouded her—wrapping her in a divine cocoon.

Leaning on the door, I listened for footsteps. Sifting between whipping winds and fat, cruel splotches of rain—I tirelessly searched for my father and sister’s presence.

I pressed my ear to the door, deliriously hoping to siphon sounds. The hollow wood, pressing against my ear, stifled most of what I so arduously wished for. Desperation overtaking both body and mind, I further dug my ear into the door—hoping, once again, beyond logic; I, fiddling with the doorknob, only heard that and my own blood rushing. Even as a lumbering presence pressed on the other side of the door, I remained—waiting to perceive what I so desperately toiled for.

“OPEN THE DOOR!” pleaded my father. On discovering this, I flung the door open, and let them inside the office. A warm, loving hand reassured me with a pat on the back; My mother emerged anew. She, thieving my sister from my father’s arms, placed my sister on her swivel-chair—instructing my sister to take up dhikr as she sorted things out; My sister grabbed the tasbeeh—cusping it so as to lose herself in thoughts all alone. She copied my mother, taking up her likeness with astounding veracity; However, she failed to capture my mother’s esoteric serenity.

For a moment, I longed for their sort of peace.

My parents convened—away from me—only acknowledging me with a far-off, melancholic expression. They spoke in Pashto, which is—to me—an unfamiliar tongue. Judging from their anguished expressions, they discussed grave matters—occasionally glancing at me with sullen eyes; The storm cried in their stead. Streaming tears pounded the window-pane behind my sister.

With sunken stares and grim grimaces, my parents approached me. My mother, dimly glowing, gently rested her hand on my shoulder, and my father did the same. I knew it before she whispered—suspecting their words with my undefined logic.

As per their request, I left the room—assigned to scour the house for food, water, clothes, and other things of the sort.

I ascended the stairs, making my way to the kitchen. The dinner-table, where I usually lounge and laze about, turned over on its side. Condiments were strewn across the kitchen floor. Puddles of ketchup and marshes of mayonnaise (I really hated mayonnaise) flooded the floorboards. Knowing that my mom would probably yell at me for this, I found some paper-towels to clean nature’s mess. Against my intentions, strong winds still billowed from the window, mangling a menagerie of my myriad mementos that once lined the kitchen.

The swirling winds swelled, rippling through my ears. Cementing itself between my ears, pressure screamed a sour sound; I couldn’t clean. I clutched my ears, gripping my head to stop the sound. But, with the window open, the sounds wouldn’t stop, objects took flight, people cried outside, while the wind roared a visceral, garish scream.

No matter the cost, this task spiraled out of control. The wind whipped my eyes, stinging them with—what felt to be—icy needles. I shut them close, mimicking my mother’s serenity. Praying, I hoped to inspire the same divine shroud coated around her. Although I felt the exact same, I believed in the hope I contended, and—maybe if I could see with closed eyes—I could’ve perceived the courage that swathed me.

In the darkness of my head, I crawled—searching for a place further than the sounds. My fingers probed the road ahead. A great deal of—what I felt to be—floorboards passed beneath me. The sensation, which melted into instinct, became normal to my hands; I no longer needed to check the road ahead.

I took several steps forward. My knees creaked and squealed with the loose boards, which was strange—especially since we recently redid them; I continued anyway. Suddenly, what seemed to be a rusty nail cleaved my forefinger. My hand jolted back, and I caught it with my other hand. The searing hurt, surprising as it was, allowed me to perceive that the noise was gone; So, I opened my eyes.

The darkness in the room hugged me, playfully covering my eyes. To no avail, I swatted him away—looking down, where I caught a faint glimmer. I knelt down to inspect it:

A weathered, wooden box sat at my feet. The almost-completely smudged lock, which looked almost-completely loose, barely secured the meager box. Journeying its splintered sides, my hand explored the decrepit thing, and—from machinations beyond my perceptions—opened to reveal: A book labeled Pandora.

Haseeb Haider is a New York-based writer whose poetry, speeches, and short-stories are locally renowned. You can find his work in various competitions and literary magazines; however, most notably, in his town’s central school district board meetings, where he will advocate for student’s access to gender-neutral bathrooms. He’s also written various pieces on insulin affordability, which will be unveiled and spoken about on April Twentieth at a public venue. His last-completed lecture was at Rutgers University, where he taught advanced story-structure to multiple students. When he’s not bleeding into his pen, he absolutely dogs his friends in basketball, reads (anything at all), and listens to music. His favorite artists are: Kendrick Lamar, TV Girl, Toshifumi Hinata, and AZALI. His favorites always change.