Music Box

Start writing... I wake up suddenly, unsure of what might have woke me. The glaring, red numbers on my alarm clock let me know that it's four in the morning. "Great," I sigh, "I'm up before the sun. Again." I throw the covers back, and move to get out of bed. Without turning any lights on, I make my way through my tiny, one bedroom apartment to the kitchen. I set about the business of making tea; it's just too early for coffee. . . or is it too late?

As the tea-kettle begins shrieking its readiness to me, my cat, Rudolph, jumps down from his favorite spot: on top of the fridge. "Good morning, handsome," I say, as he purrs back at me. He's all sleek, black fur, except for a perfectly round, white dot that covers his nose. He meows at the door, begging to be let out, so that he might begin his daily feline shenanigans. Unfortunately, in the silence and the darkness, it sounds like he is howling his death, and if my downstairs neighbor complains one more time, Rudolph and I might just find ourselves homeless. I hurry to let him out, and when the door opens, he takes off as if he's been waiting all night to escape the confines of our loving home. . .I roll my eyes at him.

As he flies past my feet, I notice a small, square shadow sitting on my welcome mat. I don't know why I even have a welcome mat; no one comes over. Just one of those things I have, because that's what people do, I guess. I bend down to pick up the mystery item, and carry the strange cube inside. Usually, I'm smart enough to remember not to bring suspicious packages into my home, but it's late. . .or early. . .and I am definitely not a morning person.

Back in my kitchen, I finally reach for the light switch. I'm holding a brown paper box, about four inches tall, and four inches wide. There is nothing written on it, anywhere. No stamps, no shipping labels; it's just a plain, brown paper box. Next, I do what any sane, well-adjusted person would do. . .I shake it! Nothing happens. Not even a sound. Could it possibly be empty? Should I open it?

I sip my tea, and stare at the box. It doesn't have my name on it, but then, it doesn't have anyone's name on it, does it? It was left outside my door. Some time after dark, though, and that is certainly creepy. However, there are no clues as to who, what, or why this little box belongs. Perhaps its contents will be more enlightening.

As I peel back the crinkly, brown wrapping, I notice the smell of honeysuckle drifting up from the paper. The cloying perfume envelopes me, so thick, it feels as if I'm immersed in the flowering shrubbery. This is obviously not normal, but I can't seem to stop myself now. I'm moving in slow-motion, pulling the flaps of the box back, nearly choking on the fragrance, then. . .a flash of hot, blinding light; a loud pop, like a very large cork being pulled out of a very large bottle. . .

What I'm seeing should be impossible, no, HAS to be impossible! Unless this is an incredibly vivid dream, which it absolutely could be. I haven't been sleeping well, lately. Maybe I'm really passed out at my kitchen table, next to my tea cup, because this place cannot be real. "Toto," I say to myself, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

The sky is like an ocean of ink: dark, swirling, moving, and rippling. Rather than give light, it appears to devour it instead. The light, or lights, are coming from the burning paper flowers I find myself suddenly surrounded by. Each white, paper stem glowing with its own uniquely colored flame. The smell of honeysuckle still overwhelms me. Every breath of the sickly, saccharine scent scorches my throat. The overly perfumed atmosphere pushes and buzzes against my skin, as if it were made of electricity. I can feel the sparks from the flowers, as their vibrant petals made of flame attempt to ignite my flesh. If this is a dream, then it's a decadent nightmare.

"How does one escape a dream?" I ask aloud. The strangest sensation. . .I can't hear myself. . .but I can feel my words as they sink into my skin. "How weird. . ." I whisper, and again, I can feel my own voice stroking my body, like waves breaking over rocks. I decide to sing. Underneath the magic of a boiling, opaque sky, I close my eyes, open my mouth, and give life to every emotion roiling inside of me. I sing until the burning stars that are the flowers, go out. I sing until the great, black sky opens up its inky floodgates. I paint myself with my own voice.

I wake up suddenly, startling Rudolph enough to make him fall off of the bed. Soft sunlight is pouring through the window, and the red numbers on my alarm clock let me know that it's not quite nine A.M. yet. I finally got some decent sleep. It feels like I might have dreamed, but I can't recall it, now. I throw the covers back and move to get out of bed. I make my way through my tiny, one bedroom apartment, but I stop dead in the kitchen. There, on the table, is a small, brown box, about four inches tall, and four inches wide. Crinkled, brown wrapping paper lies on the floor, under a chair, and the slightest hint of honeysuckle is still drifting in the air.

End