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Children of Pandora

When is a Box not a Box... When it's a Jar

By Charlie C. Published 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
1
Pandora by Lora Vysotskaya

It’s human nature to put things into boxes. You live in one box, you work at another box. You get your food in boxes, your shoes, your every precocious order. When you die, they throw you in a box, as if that’ll make you feel any better.

Which is to say, I’ve set a bad example, my children. Perhaps you’re all scared of following my footsteps by opening that one precious box you’ve been told not to open. Well, actually, mine wasn’t so much a box as it was a sealed jar. I mean, boxes are easier to close, really.

Anyway, here I am, cursed to live on, while the gods who cursed me rot away in the memories and moth-eaten textbooks of a handful of historians. I’m sure they’re delighted old Pandora’s still slumming it down here with the mortals, not that the drunken fools would ever glance this way.

Cursed as I am, I must keep moving, lest someone recognise my eternally youthful face. Naturally, Zeus couldn’t bring himself to tarnish my good looks.

Those are my circumstances as I watch the sign for Martin’s Mart revolve lazily around a pole. The scrap of paper in the window says Martin needs experienced front-of-house staff. I’ve learnt jobs like this are a good way to keep the boredom away.

Stepping into the shop, the avalanche of noise assails me. These people are always so loud and needy. Cutting through the queue, I lean against the closest till, and the beleaguered sales colleague, “Jessie” if we go by nametags, fixes shellshocked eyes on me. The crowd behind me bays for blood and lower prices.

“Hear you’re hiring,” I say.

“You have to speak to Martin.” Jessie points to a red-faced, twitchy man flailing about at the only other manned till.

So, I push to the front of the other queue, ignoring the cries of outrage from my customers. Martin stares as I give a charming grin.

“I’m interested in-”

“You’re hired,” barks Martin. “Start packing this into bags as I scan it.”

“Wonderful!” I’m gifted in the way of words, you see.

My eyes catch on a mysterious brown paper box in the customer’s hands. Curiosity almost tempts me to snatch it from her, rip it open. What treasures could hide inside?

Martin clears his throat. The trance is broken, and I ignore the brown box.

I slip into place behind the till, lacquered fingernails drumming impatiently. As Martin scans the huffing woman’s items, I snatch them up, stuffing them into a bag. It becomes my nature. I push every little cardboard box and packet into the bag, hands barely shaking. I move fast, so as to restrain my curiosity from taking the reins. It’s got me in trouble before.

Hours fly by, with me hardly lifting my eyes from the bags. Some of the customers compliment me on my speed, but I ignore them. What use are they? Mortals are stubborn and arrogant and short-sighted – cursed by the blight I unleashed on them. In a way, I made them.

The last customer scurries away, and I crane my aching neck up. Another harsh day of atonement for the fallen Pandora.

“You’ve done this before,” says Martin. “Come along to my office. We’ll get your contract signed with the manager.”

I shrug, not anticipating more than a few years in this place. “Lead the way.”

Martin indeed leads the way, wringing his hands as we pass a few flocks of customers browsing his wares. This is another of those shops that sells everything of use but nothing of quality.

“You’re not the manager?” I ask. “You should be. You have a managerial posture.”

Martin laughs. “The manager doesn’t like dealing with people, so he leaves all that to me. He stays down here.”

We reach the back of the shop, where a staircase descends into depths dark as Tartarus. Martin tries a light switch, muttering when it fails, and takes a small torch from his pocket. We tread carefully down, guided by the tiny halo of light.

“The manager’s a strange feller,” says Martin. “You’ll like him though. No nonsense.” He frowns. “Even looks a bit like you.”

I stretch at my collar. The heat of this weird bunker-office intensifying as we walk on. A yapping startles us both, but Martin is quick to laugh.

“Ah, our guard-dogs,” he says. “The manager brought them with him.”

I sneer at the three shaggy black mutts who come tiptoeing out of the gloom. Their lips pull back in matching snarls as they advance on me. Martin’s laugh becomes strangled.

“Now, boys, this here is a new employee… em-ploy-ee.”

The three dogs seem vaguely familiar. It would seem I’ve met this manager before, so I formulate an excuse to leave Martin’s Mart. There are dozens of little shops in little towns I can hide away in for the next lifetime.

“To me!” growls a deep voice from the dark.

The three dogs slink back into shadow. Martin exhales, but the manager speaks again before he can explain.

“New employee, in my office,” he says, his voice familiar, gravelly and hoarse.

Martin lets me wander ahead, and I have no choice but to enter the open door of the manager’s office. It slams shut behind me. A lantern above us flickers to life. Such unimpressive party tricks convince me of my hunch.

Still, I give nothing away, sliding into the chair opposite the manager. He has his back to me, rummaging in one of the cabinets lining his wall. The three dogs take up positions around his desk, glaring at me. I hold my hands in my lap, wondering what it would be like to tear open all those drawers, and what it would be like to go through his desk. Such mystery.

The manager turns to me, face in shadow. He stands tall, with an almost statuesque build to him, but his outdated blazer and shirt combo negates his severity somewhat. His balding scalp shines through a wispy crown of hair, like the last embers of a dying fire.

He slaps a folder down on the desk between us. I lean forward, nodding when I see a photo of me there.

“It’s been a while, Hades,” I say, leaning back.

“Haden here, please,” he says, ever the professional. He lights a cigarette and watches me with cold eyes.

“I see you brought your dog with you.”

“Dogs,” he corrects. “Three heads would attract the wrong kind of attention these days.”

I slouch, trying my best to relax as my heart stampedes. “And Persephone?”

“Keeping the house warm,” says Hades. Even his attempts at humour are cold and mirthless. “And you, Pandora? How have you been these past few thousand years?”

“Oh, keeping busy. I’ve found some great boxsets.” I sigh.

Hades stubs out his cigarette in a glass ashtray, and puts his hands together over the folder. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you. And this comes from… upper management. My brother believes you worthy of redemption.” Hades chews his inner cheek. “We both know he’s an impulsive idiot whose judgment is best described as patchy, but he’s in charge.”

“You were just waiting here for me?” I say.

Hades snorts. “I actually enjoy management. Not so different from back home.”

“Less shrieking from souls in eternal torment?”

“Debateable,” says Hades. “The point is, my brother is offering you a chance at… well, an escape from this.”

I lean closer, heart still beating hard. To leave this wandering, aimless life behind, to not have to worry about someone recognising my ageless face, to be forgiven… I’d given up all hope of being welcomed back by Zeus and the others.

Hades pulls open a cupboard under his desk. Breath catches in my throat as he places a familiar jar between us. The gold has dulled, and some of the paint has flaked away, but the lid is there, plugged in place. The handle invites you to just pull it off.

My fingers clench around my knees. Hades looms over the jar. In his hand, he holds up a smaller brown paper box, like the one the woman in the queue had.

“He thought you might struggle with the jar. Maybe you could try this instead.”

“Piss off!” I snap, my focus narrowing on the jar. My muscles bunch, ready to launch me at the ruinous artifact.

“If you can spend a day with this jar without opening it, you’re free,” says Hades.

“What does that mean though?” I mumble. “I actually quite like it here too.”

Hades’ frown deepens. The growls of three dogs echo around the small office. The jar shifts closer to me, or I lean closer toward it. Within seconds, I’m caressing it with my fingernails. Then I wrap my hands around it, lifting it from the desk.

“You made a mistake before, Pandora,” says Hades. “Don’t repeat it.”

But did I make a mistake? Looking back, my only crime was curiosity. And, my children, is not a small portion of disobedience healthy? Oh, you may paint me as a monster, but have I not freed you from the tyranny of the gods? Well, maybe I exaggerate. But, my children, you are freer than you’d be without me.

I tip the jar around in my hands. Something rattles around in the bottom. Every fibre of me itches at the mystery of it.

“How long do I have?” I ask.

“Twenty-four hours,” says Hades.

Shrugging, I grab the lid and pull it open.

As Hades groans into his palms, I empty the last dregs from the jar. Something like glittering sand tumbles out, dissipating as it strikes the floor. I guess we’ll have to see what it is.

“See you in another few thousand years, Uncle Haden.”

Laughing, I strut out of his office, back to my chaos.

Short Story
1

About the Creator

Charlie C.

Attempted writer.

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