The Box

"Stallworth, over here," a voice shouts. I see a familiar man standing on the points of his toes. His freshly shined shoes crease and squeak upon doing so. The top of his grayed hair can only be seen through the waves of various couples holding onto each other. I push through the restless crowd and reach my stout acquaintance. "Meet the girlfriend," he says, pointing to the elegant woman on his left. "Pleasure to meet you," the blonde woman says. "Pleasure's all mine," I say, shaking her soft hand. "Name's Stallworth," I say in her ear. The crowd is too loud to handle; they gossip, chatter and rave about the exhibit we are about to enter. "I know who you are," she says in an escalated voice. "Ronnie over here won't shut up about you, says you're one of the most passionate men he's ever met. Also says you're a mysterious one; he can't quite crack you." She clears her throat and states in my ear, "My name is Natalie." I don't quite know what to say to her compliment through Ron's words. I let out a breath, "I appreciate that Ron." He motions using the air to tip his non-existent hat. Ron then nods his combed head quizzically. "When do you propose this will start, Stallworth?" he then asks, combing his facial hair with his blunt fingers as he stares at me. I look down at the golden watch on my wrist,

"According to the invite, right about now." 

A strange horn-like sound rings in the air. It speaks to the crowd as if it were a frustrated teacher shushing a rowdy kindergarten classroom. Our host and fellow artist steps out onto the gothic balcony above us. Our feet scrunch in our shoes, the women feel the cold blades of grass through their open toed shoes. The cold air tightens our faces, leaving our noses tickled pink and our ears sore. The crowd becomes quiet and we await our instructions. A sense of poise is created and kept through and through. Our host speaks, "Welcome, my fellow friends, family, acquaintances, artists, and scholars. I thank you for coming to support my outlandish passion project. What you're about to see inside will surprise you, invigorate you, and hopefully change you. I've spent years working on this, and I'm proud to say I'm ready to unveil it. I won't take much more of your time, but it's truly an honor to be here." I observe him. If I weren't as observant as I am, I'd miss the truth behind the mask he likes to put up. I spot his finger tapping gently on the stone podium, his foot scrunching in his boot, the drop of sweat beneath his collar. It would be unwise to say I dislike my host, but it would be unwise to say I don't find him a phony. 

"All I can truly say is, welcome to, The Passage of the Midnight Requiem!" He steps down from his pedestal and is taken down the stairs. He leaves the crowd through a door blocked off to us. Natalie says to me, "This is quite exciting, no?" Ron chips in, "I'm ecstatic, honey." I lie and say that I'm happy to be here. I'm sure she's keen enough to see through this facade, however. Ron turns around to face me whispering, "I'm honestly not too excited either." We're slowly taken through a ravaged door painted black that is adorned with a crow. The door rests below the balcony where our host previously resided. The guards outside motion to the groups around us, "How many?" The muscular men let in around twenty before we are allowed through. I allow Ron and Natalie to pass forth before me. Ron locks arms with his girlfriend and she does so somewhat zestfully. She turns around, "Guess we'll see you inside." 

I'm immediately separated from Ron and Natalie. I, and the colossal amount of guests, are ushered inside a room devoid of any light. It's unbelievably dark; my eyes are hesitant to adjust. Constellations of light rays of old dance in my vision. A coarse, veiny, sandpaper hand taps my shoulder. It takes my own and gives me something: a mirror. A light surrounds it's circular nature and shines dimly on my face. A whispering face greets me. Even in darkness I can see the age of my body, the gray gradient upon my balding head. The hair, although attempting to be quaffed, is losing its youth. My beard is a salt and pepper field of withering daisies which once kissed the Sun. The sea of torches are reflected in my mirror. I'm given a sense of scope at the size of the room, and the amount of people crammed in the place. 

I move the mirror almost instinctively and it meets my side. The line marches on and in a rapid flash a sphere dangling from the ceiling is set ablaze. Gasps are heard in a collective moment. Screams are echoed throughout the winding chambers and stretched halls. The line marches on and we're met with a door at least 5 men tall. A silent moment is stretched on for what seems eons. A ticking is repeated in our ears, taunting us, grinding our sanity away. It ticks, and ticks; I nearly cover my ears. Many of my colleagues begin to become frantic, "I must get home at a decent time, do you suppose something is glitching?" "Open the damn door!" "I want my money back!" Ironic; we were all invited to come for free. I check my watch and the dials spin quickly and soon after, break. Strange. Many of us begin to sit down; as do I. "Stallworth, Stallworth," I hear in front of me. "Stallworth, Stall. Worth!" Another man shouts, "Stallworth let the man know where you are for God's sake." I stand after a bit of creaking in my bones and raise my hand. It is just as soon made visible by the sphere above us as it continues to burn with an intense heat. Ron and Natalie shimmy their way to my presence. "What time is it, pal?" he asks. "Watch is broken; can't tell," I say, showing him my wrist. "Let me see that hand," he says. I show him. He then oddly enough, laughs, "Even the skin is getting a bit wrinkled," he says. I pull my hand away quickly. I stare at the slight wrinkling and the veins now not so filled with vigor as they once were. My spine begins to creak and my legs begin to ache. Why would he say that? I wobble slightly. Ron notices this, "How did that injury heal up, pal?" 

I clench my jaw and fist. My temperature rises and tears well within my eyes. I choke down the frog ribbiting in my throat and joke, "Healed up pretty nicely, just hurts from time to time is all." Before I can give in to my body's inclination to sit, the doors open. "Welcome and enjoy," a voice says. A room at least four times the size of my home is revealed. We are set free to gaze upon and experience whatever attraction we would like. The exhibit is filled with thousands of art pieces. Ron and Natalie ask me to lead the way and I decide to look at various paintings. Many of them are abstract and confuse me. Natalie immediately loves many of them. We arrive at a specific piece titled, "Childhood." The canvas is colored with splotches of red, blue, yellow, even black, and dashes of white. I struggle to understand its meaning; it's only colors. Natalie loves it and explains it to me after seeing my puzzled face. "The red represents his anger, the yellow represents his innocence, and the black and those white bits there show the trauma he faced." We move on and as the night drones this becomes the case for every piece. Abstract sculptures, abstract paintings, abstract music, abstract, abstract, abstract! 

My heart races, my fingers twiddle, the pain in my hip burns my entire body. What does any of it mean? We stare at a sculpture of a rectangular prism with a smiley face on all of its faces. The crowds roar, cheer, laugh, and cry. What does it mean?! I begin to lose my grip on my stature I try to uphold. It must all have meaning. After hours of walking, the hordes of people are split up. I'm obviously grouped with my friends. After nearly an hour or so of waiting, we are guided by a strange man. He towers above us and is adorned with a black cloak. His face is charred and his skin tight. He uses a stick to guide us down another hall and we are seated in a room by ourselves. Our host, Mr. Dinkett himself, speaks to us. "Friends, colleagues, enemies, I'm sure many of you have questions after tonight. Many of you demand the meaning of my work," he says. He's interrupted by Natalie, "No, I understood it all very well in fact, Mr. Dinkett." Has she no manners? "I know you understood, but some of us cling to meaning." Ron raises his hand, but quickly interrupts. Ron is two decades younger than I but is beginning to enter another phase in his life. "I was quite confused but I understood eventually." "Yes, yes, I know. But to those who could not understand the meaning, I offer you this." He pulls a box from behind his back. He places it on the table we sit at. 

"In this box contains the meaning of my art, and perhaps, even life itself. You can choose to open it, or not, but you must choose eventually. You will never be let back in to see the box or it's contents. Choose wisely." Natalie immediately stands up. "I don't need to." She says nothing else. "Why?!" I shout. "You cannot ask such things or communicate with each other." She walks out of a miniature door. Ron looks for a moment but stands up as well, "I understood it pretty well. I don't need to know." He leaves. Why wouldn't I open it? "So it leaves you. I'm aware of your hatred for me, and I appreciate it. I know you tire of my art due to it's abstract meaning." I shuffle in my seat. My hips, knees, knuckles and back begin to ache incessantly. "Before you open it, I'd like you to wait one hour before you do so. Let's say this is just one hurdle to soar over before you become awakened to what I have been awakened to." He sees the disdain on my face. "Or, can you not wait an hour?"

He leaves me and a guard is sent in. I decide to follow his demand. For what is an hour? He thinks he's better than me because of his self-righteous exhibits and such. Fool. I can last an hour. I also know the meaning of life; I can surmise such meanings with reasoning. He only believes in things that have no logic. I am logical. Logically I have figured life out. Who is he to say I haven't? I sit for a while and the box taunts me. It's edges are sharp, and it's faces are decorated with an orange glow. The front face houses a button for which to open the box. It taunts me, oh it taunts me.

Dinkett is my age, how is he so wise? He can't know something I don't, can he?! The box speaks to me, "Open me," it says. I cannot, I must beat him! "OPEN ME," it yells. No! I cannot break! No, no, no, no, no, no. I pick it up, drop it, pick it up, and drop it. I walk around the room in a pacing manner. I can beat him. It's been long enough though, no? An hour, an hour has had to have gone by.

"OPEN ME, OPEN ME, OPEN ME," it's screaming in agony. It shrieks with the gravel of my own displeasure. It's nails run down the chalkboard of the corners of my mind and my heart rages. I try to plug my old ears but it's to no avail. The sound of it's pleading to put it out of its misery only echoes louder in my chambered ears. Oh, I must see, I must know, I must see what the meaning of life is, I must know the secret to art, the secret to happiness! Lord I am so unhappy, how has a man with my frail frame found it before me?! What does Dinkett know that I do not?! My hands shake and I unsteadily open the box. Drool falls from my lips and my eyes twitch. No! It's empty! I'm enraged. I throw the box and it shatters into fractals of its own self. I flip the table and grab the guard by his collar. "That idiot took the meaning, yes, he did, he took it with him to toy with me!" I shake him and punch him in the face after silence on his part. "Tell me! He did that! Tell me, you must have seen what resides inside!" The guard refuses to fight me or speak. Before I can go any further, Dinkett enters the room. I now pounce on him. I rapidly pummel his face and rabidly foam at the mouth. "Tell, tell, tell, tell." His face becomes unrecognizable through the blood and bone. I pull myself off of him. He stands up through the red sea and pain. Dinkett is filled with an odd poise that only fuels the hatred. He wipes the blood and a medic is met to his side. He motions and they set up a station outside of the room. 

He collects himself and clears his throat. He stares at me so disapprovingly. I sob in the corner, shaking, seizing. Policemen enter. As I'm taken away I begin to speak through my burning throat. It singes my nostrils as mucus, and even vomit becomes acidic to my esophagus. I must speak! I must… 

I'm cut off, "3 minutes," Dinkett mutters.