Short Story: This Box Can Kill

Blood dripped from the suspended box onto the table and then onto the pine-panelled floor of an apartment on West 74th Street. 

She exhaled and placed the box on the table; crimson leaked out, and as each drip heavily fell to the ground, she collapsed into the chair behind her. 

She glanced at the figure on the floor, and after, up to the box which seemed to stare back at her. The archaic, though almost recognisable faces and maps backgrounded a burial ground of forgotten objects: a small bottle, screws, and metal rings, all surrounding a paper showgirl whom gravity seemed to have affected. Her posture was not relaxed, yet it was not stiffened – like a shirt slumped over a hanger. Her feathers were not as vibrant or full as they had once been, so they drooped as an unenthusiastic frame on her even more depreciated figure.

Her expression, though, remained unchanged for the last thirty years. Set, moulded like plastic. Half-pouted lips, eyebrows arched with a slight point as the light landed on her strong jawline, while her wide eyes revealed a unique shade of green that encompassed the inky pupils which fixated on the journey of the final two drops of blood. 

She could see it in the reflection of those eyes – a history even the most advanced physiognomist would not be able to find. What were her secrets? Did they now share a secret? She couldn’t place exactly where this box came from, but it appeared in the apartment around the same time she moved in. So, she assumed it was his - well, hers now. It had always been there on the shelf, witnessing their everyday lives. The household chores: the vacuum cleaning, dusting, polishing, pillow-plumping etc… the cooking, though that became increasingly rare since the Chinese restaurant around the corner opened. That monotonous life of removing the dust only for new particles to settle – it was a never-ending job. Though that was then. She didn’t know if she would have to do that anymore now it was just her. Every time she picked the box up to dust, it fascinated her. Though they never spoke about it. Never about where it came from – it was such a unique thing after all.  Maybe she would have found out one day. But the chances are that she wouldn’t, not now anyway. Its only source of information about its history lay dead on the carpet. The information died with him, its secrets, then, were never to be revealed and the cycle would continue. 

Now she had analysed this box, now a weapon, it came to her that this box was both the most interesting object in the apartment, but also the one she held with most contempt. Was it the fixed face she envied, or the attention she commanded? Either way, she too was now tainted. The worst thing she had ever done before was forget to return a library book when she was at Vassar. She remembered it was about revenge in Shakespeare’s later plays and proved useful to her essay. It would never have crossed her mind, until recently, that she would end up in this situation. Anyway, there was no point in being hysterical about it all – what was done was done and nothing could change it. She was on her own and her own mind finally had control over one of her situations, as messy as it was. It would be the queerest thing of all for her to get silly about it, as one would expect. No, she made her bed and now she must lie in it. 

That was her mother’s favourite phrase, and now she truly knew what she meant. So, with her thoughts collected, and evening already planned, it was time to leave. She put on her white gloves, picked up her red leather Gucci purse and gave one last look at the girl in the box. Then, she shifted her eyes to those below the receding hairline on the floor, stepped over this suited figure and left the room, then the building. Good riddance.  

As she stood on the sidewalk, she noticed that the sky had turned into a blend of navy blue and charcoal grey, illuminated by the numerous phosphorescent sources below. So, with each step, she followed each light until she reached her destination. All the lights met in one spot, creating a space, safe but intimidating, and so, she climbed onto the stage, picked up the microphone and brought it to her mouth. With the jokes in her head, she surveyed the room looking for material. There was plenty to be found. Women with the most bizarre outfits screamed to be mocked, while the monochromatic men’s faces equally revealed their debauched secrets to her.  Therapists would be happy after this set – they could afford to invest in a newer couch. She plastered on that devious grin that so many had come to know her by and determined what her posture would be tonight, before giving a final look at her anticipating audience.