Pandora's Box

Magic saved Pandora's life. The death of his mother left Stephen Pandora alone, a glass of scotch, an empty house, and the ticking of his mother's favorite clock his only remaining companions. The empty nights, measured by the clock's ticking, piled on top of one another much like the empty scotch bottles near his chair. He wasn't sure when his thoughts drifted to his grandfather's old straight razor. Stored in the attic, the well-kept blade would still be sharp, sharp enough to trace along the curve of Stephen's throat without him feeling the slice. Daydreams of the velvet-lined oak case and gleaming, high carbon steal blade overwhelmed Pandora's mind, drowning out the incessant clock-ticking.

He tilted his bottle up, tongue tracing the narrow neck of the whiskey container to drag the last few drops into his mouth before tossing the bottle on the floor with the others. Pandora ignored the sound of glass striking glass and pushed himself up from the chair, hands shaking on the armrests that he used to brace himself. He took an unsteady step forward and paused, collecting his inebriated mind enough to walk towards the kitchen where a fresh bottle of scotch waited; however, before he reached the kitchen door, the stairwell to his left caught his eye. It led to the second floor and, past his mother's now unoccupied room, to another set of stairs that would take him to the attic.

Stephen Pandora managed the stairs only by using the handrail to drag himself to the next floor. He slumped against the mint green wallpaper in the hallway and pushed forward, knocking picture frames to the carpet as he leaned into the wall to prevent himself from falling down. The attic smelled dry and dusty, Pandora smacked his shin against a stack of boxes as he searched for the light fixture. He cursed into the darkness, his hand finally finding the switch and illuminating the claustrophobic space.

Boxes, lined in neat stacks, filled the room mixed with old furniture that his mother never threw away but didn't use. Against the back wall sat boxes and a large chest containing mementos from his grandparents. Pandora wobbled to the chest, throwing the lid back on its hinges. He intended to find the oak case and the razor, to hold the box in his hands, to feel the grain of the wood, to admire the shine of the steal edge. Instead, a bright motley of clothes and props distracted his drunken thought process.

He'd found the wrong box, the chest contained his grandfather's old magic collection, costumes, props, hand written notes explaining the tricks and ideas to improve them. Pandora dropped to the attic floor, amused by the silk scarves, metal rings, and cards. He organized the objects into piles and read his grandfather's notes until sunlight fought its way through the small, dust coated window pane. Pandora's head thrummed with the beginning of a hangover, one that had been denied for weeks by his continuous drinking. It felt good, the pain in his head, it felt like it was knocking down the stones he'd stacked up in his mind, a wall meant to shield him from his grief but only managed to trap himself inside his own mind with it.

Stephen showered, slept, woke up wrenching and shaking from detox. He nursed a single glass of liquor to ease the transition, but it didn't work enough to keep the soup he had for supper in his stomach. It took four days of violent trembling, vomiting, sweating, and paranoia for his liver to purge the ethanol induced toxins from his body and restore him to feeling like a human being.

He met Hope Purefoy on the road. He drove from town to town performing magic tricks in a tent consisting of more patches than original material. People laughed, explained to him, with the tone and patience reserved for children and seniors, that times change, it wasn't the 1920's and television replaced the need for sideshows. Fortunately for Pandora, it was still a time of corded phones and long stretches of countryside too isolated for cable television, so he always made just enough money to get him to the next town, and that's all he ever needed.

Hope had thin pale lips, too many freckles, and mouse brown hair. She bit her nails into short, ugly, squares, and her eyes shined but the gray color was as ordinary as Wednesday, as oatmeal, or as wool socks. However, she loved magic, wanted to travel with him, and, most importantly, could twist her body into grotesque knots. "I'm double jointed," she explained, her voice excited, her expressive smile lit her face into something more lovely than anything so mundane had a right to be. "I could be your assistant. Hyper-mobility would allow me to perform the tricks easier."

He was already in love with her, because she was bland on the outside, because inside she had light and fire and magic – real magic that made all his tricks petty. "You'd have to leave your home, your family?" He replied, the audience left after the show and the two of them stood alone in the motley colored tent.

"It's just me," she shrugged, her smiled now small and shy. "I have an apartment and a waitress job. I'm not very fond of either one. What do you say? Need an assistant?"

He did. There were a few tricks that he couldn't do himself. So they traveled together. She transformed herself, using the deceptive magic society encouraged woman to sacrifice to in order to mold themselves to popular notions of beauty. Peroxide bleached her hair platinum. Foundation hid her freckles. Eyeliner and lipstick drew her features into sharp statements. Corsets and pantyhose pushed her body into the right shape, and a glittering, sequined costume distracted the eye from the blatant, shallow effect created by the makeup.

She was his assistant and his grand finale. They had an act they finished each show with, Pandora's Box, a bright red and gold, coffin sized box that Pandora sawed in half with Hope trapped inside. It wasn't the 1920's, the trick had been done before, but the audience still loved it.

They traveled for three years, sticking to the small towns, areas that had nothing better for entertainment. They slept on the road or in motels, ate at diners, always moved. One night, sleeping in the back wagon among the folded tents and magic props, Stephen turned and stared at Hope, "do you ever get tired of traveling? Do you ever want to settle down?"

She reached a slender finger out and poked his nose. "Maybe one day, but I love seeing the smiles on the crowds' faces. You make people happy with your magic."

Stephen snorted, "not really. Our shows are barely big enough to keep us on the road."

"Here," Hope unclasped the chain around her neck and fastened the pendent around his own.

He looked down at the small, silver pentagram enclosed within a circle. "What's this?"

"It was my mother's. It'll protect you."

"From hecklers?" he teased.

She swung her leg over him, straddling him and leaning forward to his his mouth, whispering into his lips, "from dark magic. Promise you'll never take it off."

He smirked, pulling her closer and raising his hips up between her thighs to tease a moan from her lips, "sure," he answered.

The next week they did another show. Nothing special about the performance, about the town they did it in, about the audience who watched it, perhaps that was the problem, he'd been bored, not paying enough attention until the finale when blood dripped from the coffin sized-box that held his lover inside. She never screamed. She only held Pandora's hand as they waited for the ambulance, and, at the end, whispered don't quit, before coughing out a last breath and fading to nothing, nothing but an empty box herself, no magic left inside to save him from his grief.

There was more whiskey, much more, he paid for it by cheating at cards games in gambling dens. That's how he met Marik Ishtar. The leader of the Ghouls caught on to how Pandora manipulated the games and thought Pandora would be a strategic addition to his collection of Rare Hunters. The memory of Marik striding towards Pandora's card table, like a mythical god from an old legend, continued to burn bright and clear in Stephen's mind, similar to how a light bulb releases a harsh glow before the filament sizzles and dies.

Afterward, that's what Pandora's mind felt when he tried to think, a dead, unconnected thread of wire unable to send a signal from one part of his mind to the next. Except, sometimes, the spark of motivation jumped on its own, and then Stephen followed the current like the audience followed his old acts, obedient, eyes trained on the performance but never catching the true actions on the stage, only the illusions. This time with Marik under the lights, manipulating each trick, waving his wand to create a dark sort of magic.

Now, alone, Pandora knelt on the floor, knees curled tight into his chest. The memories of both his mother's and his lover's death flooded into his mind, drowning him. Pandora couldn't remember exactly what he'd been doing – playing a card game? – but, at the moment, the desperate need to release his sorrow numbed all other thoughts and sensations. He panicked, raising his arms to the saw blades besides him. If he tore the delicate skin away from his wrists, then the grief, the suffering, the memories, all of it would flood out of him, carried away by the tide of blood. He trembled, fat drops of scarlet dripping hot from his wrist as one of the saw's teeth punctured into his flesh.

Stephen learned forward, preparing to drag the length of his arm across the blade, opening all the veins at once, satisfying the self-destructive urges keening in his mind. As he leaned forward, something metallic clinked against the metal saw. Pandora blinked sweat out of his eyes as the fragile sound pierced through the scramble of thoughts driving him. Hope's pendent, the small silver star enclosed in a protective circle, had slipped out of his shirt and hit the blade. Pandora started when he saw the amulet, tears dripping down his burning cheeks as he thought of Hope whispering with her last breath, don't quit.

Something sparked in Pandora's brain. The filament that linked himself to his actions reconnected as he realized how bad his loved ones would want him to live. He didn't know what he should do with his life, except that it should be better than whiskey, gambling dens, and marked cards. He pulled his hand away from the saw, using his tie to wrap the cut in his skin, and stood up. His fingertips traced the outlines of the star pendent as he left the dueling area.