Box

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Why did they give Box to her then? She hardly had time to ponder. She was putty in others' hands, a doll taught what to say and do. Nobody asked what she wanted.

The village greeted their first woman with suspicion. Only one man smiled. Her new husband.

He took her in with all the gifts, even Box. He laughed:

‘It’s a wardrobe, silly!’

He gave her gifts too: dresses in outrageous colours. Cotton, silk. He urged her to try them on, for his impatient fingers to remove them only moments later.

She would go out in these dresses, her head held high, silence descending in her wake. Furtive glances clung to her breasts, slid down the curve of her hips. She knew what men called her when they thought she couldn’t hear.

Garments filled all chests. Fabric started spilling out of the coffers.

All that time, Box loomed in the darkest room. No, not Box. A wardrobe. Would it be so bad if she hid some loathsome dresses inside?

She broke a fingernail trying to pry the door open. Finally, it moved with a screech.

Hot air rushed out, singeing her arm. Instinctively, she pushed the door back. It no longer fitted.

‘What’re you doing, Pandora?’

She turned round, saw her husband’s narrowed eyes, the knife he was holding. She forgot about the door. It swung wide open.

Freezing wind sped by and through her, squeezed her throat with an icy fist, made her heart pound wildly.

The rest was chaos.

Pain woke her. There were footsteps, muted voices. Someone touched her arm.

The world swam into focus. Concerned faces hovered above. Why was the knife in her hand now?

‘She’s alive! There’s still hope.’

Not for him, she thought.