Pandora's Heart-Shaped Box

            I met a woman who, for the sake of privacy, will be called Pandora. She was a kind young woman with generally good intentions. Her lies were frequent and easily discerned from truth when presented to a liar such as myself. The only way she could get away with them is if I turned one eye to what she called the truth and the other blind. Pandora was a good friend and always worth my time- she and I would spend time close on my bed and chat about the stupid things on television.

            The day came when I finally found the courage to ask her what always seemed to bother her, and though I do not recall her exact words, I do recall that she denied any burden or bother upon her head. I pressed gently and assured her that I would not judge no matter the answer so long as it was the truth, and she squeezed my hand and pointed to a small box resting on her vanity table. I asked her, “My dear will you unlock this for me?”

            In haste she replied “It mustn't be opened!” and tackled me to the bed with a playful “roar I love you,” to distract me.

            I played along and pretended the box was out of my mind. I searched my mind for what I knew- her father had been removed from the picture for rough play, her mother seemed somewhat coarse in sensitive matters, and the future is always uncertain, but this seemed to be more than a troubled past and disaffection at home- it was a clear chain to shackle her smile. She left the room to get drinks, leaving me alone with the box. I studied it from the outside, and though I had no right to unlock and open it, I eyed it through the keyhole.

            I saw something twitch inside- something inside was screaming and pounded against the lid faintly to escape. It was not a simple treasured memory, but rather fear encased in stoic layers of soft fabric and frilly signatures of happiness. It was a something that was formed at some time from some trauma- and it was still alive. It smelled of rot and seemed to press against its cage at every second of every day and it reacted spontaneously under my glare. The box shook lightly until she whisked it away from the table and tossed it into her closet. She looked at me, half in anger, half in sorrow, and completely in pain, and shook her head.

    I still know not what was in the box beyond a trauma, and now perhaps her distrust. She does not look at me the same- an amalgam of curiosity towards what I know and fear towards what I may do has kept her gaze somewhat icy. I want to take what evil is in her box and smash it so that she need not keep such things locked up yet it is not my right to open it. It is not my place to force it open. Nobody has the right to open it but her. No man has the key to the locks on Pandora’s secretive heart shaped box.