Monkeying around

this - a beautiful darkness
*****
Pandora's visit

So a stranger stopped by to visit yesterday. I had never in my life seen her before, but she knew all about me, it seemed—she even knew my Chinese name. She was a little scary when she first arrived. Her hair was raven black and slick with oil, and styled to stick out in pointy spikes at the sides. Her eyes were darker than her hair, framed by sticky kohl lids and a glittery shadow in Prussian blue. I couldn’t help staring at her pale and powdered face and the cold, cold whiteness of her skin. And when she began to speak, the voice that came from within her muddy lips was nothing short of ominous to me.

They call me Pandora, she said. You should know me well. I looked at her a tad afraid, for I had no recollection of meeting this creature ever before. And there she stood in front of me, in her ghoulish make-up and shiny leather pants claiming I knew her well. Hello, Pandora, I said, trying to be friendly. I’m really sorry if it’s been otherwise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before. She rubbed her lips with blackened nails and I saw the chains of rusted silver twisted tight around her fingers, the noise of clanging metal creating disharmony in my ears. Perhaps you never noticed who I was, she said. But you can bet I’ve come by your home before.

Since when, I asked. Since when? And she brushed my questions right aside, ignoring my curious pleas. It’s all over. It doesn’t matter anymore, she said. Despite my good intentions, nobody likes me anyway. I felt bad because it seemed I’d wronged a friend, so I pat her on the shoulder and I asked if she’d like to come in.

Then just like that, she burst into smile, the white paint on her face cracking into loosened flakes and crumbs. That’s alright, my love, she said. But you must accept this gift I brought for you. And from inside her raggedy denim jacket, ripped and torn and hanging by fragile threads, she picked out a little box wrapped in pink, with sequined beads of fuchsia and shiny studs of crystal glitter. It’s yours, she said. And then she pulled me close and cupped my face, her fingers leaving icy trails along my cheek and chin.

“It’s my gift to you,” she said. “Pandora’s Box. Now, open it.”

The box weighed heavy in my hands; its cloying scent of perfumed sweetness suddenly familiar to me once more. And then I knew—I knew where I’d seen Pandora many times before.

So I pushed the bitch away, shoved her hard and sent the rusted chains she wore flying into her powdered face, cutting her skin and slicing open her already rotting flesh. She got up and snarled at me. You never understood, she said. Like you, no one ever does. I have nothing but noble intentions, but you cowards are too scared of truth. Then, she turned and fled my home, her heavy boots burning a trail of footprints outside the door, the clanging of the chains she wore slowly fading into a stony silence as she disappeared.

And I stood there by the door, Pandora’s Box in my hands. Months before I’d torn open the pink wrapping paper like a crazed kid at Christmas, ripped the beads and crystals off and flung the lid right open. But this time I looked at Pandora’s gift, and I didn’t want to open it at all.

- DiDa