ZEITGEIST - VOL. 5

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A LITERARY MAGAZINE Thursday, May 16, 2019
STORIES
Past’s Box
Peter’s defiant, baby blue orbs clashed head-on with his mother’s barely restrained scorching glare,
refusing to back down even after an unexpected visit to the principal’s office and a hefty discussion over his
last report card. Now at home, verbal whiplashes rained amongst the two but, with agile parental absolutism,
his mother, Caroline, gave him a final ultimatum - stripping him of his car keys indefinitely as punishment.
No matter how much Peter fussed and fretted, his mother’s silence spoke volumes of her resolve.
Frustrated with indignation, the teen finally raised his voice and, sporting wild gestures, he hollered: “How can
you do this to me? I hate you!”
Then he spun away, with tears threatening to prick his eyes, running up the stairs to lock himself in his
room and slamming the door. After a few calming breaths, Peter let his gaze wander to the window next to his
desk, considering escape as the only viable solution to all his problems. Darkness. Strangely, not a sound
could be heard beyond the window, not even the seemingly mischievous tapping of its glass by a tree branch.
Everything appeared deadweight still with the exception of Peter’s rhythmic heartbeat as the sole
resemblance to life inside the room. Such odd tranquility made shivers dance along Peter’s spine as he drew
a paused, shaky breath. For some strange reason, he felt the room getting darker around the edges, but
blamed the uncomfortableness on exhaustion from his earlier argument with that woman.
“I will apologize later,” Peter thought. “She’ll forget it.”
Again, Peter glanced around his room and noticed an old, wooden crate (vaguely remembering it once
being an enormous toy box) pressed against the far end. It looked like any other ordinary toy box - built with
hardwood and polished to pristine glossiness. In itself, the box was an artistic masterpiece with its little
engraved floral designs and wonderful swirl patterns splayed around its husk making it stand out proudly
amongst the room’s plain furniture, the fading mahogany paint, and the occasional small scrape as the only
indication of age. As if lulled in a trance, Peter heard the soft thumping of his feet carry him towards the box
and a faint rustling as his fingers fiddled with the latch, the box’s woodsy smell hitting his nose like a truck.
With a mighty push, the lid slid backwards suddenly, lifting a thick layer of dust into Peter’s face as he
coughed and waved his hands in circles, trying to clear away the blinding particles from his eyes. He gave
another heavy sigh, as if pained. The box still contained many of his used and broken toys - good memories
of a distant past when eating, sleeping, and having fun were his sole priorities. Peter sighed for the third time,
wistfully, longing for times when his mother wasn’t so strict and reminiscing about long past memories of his
childhood.
“It was a nice life,” he thought.
Curious yet again, the boy rummaged through the sooty, miniature wooden horses, the plastic racing
cars with missing wheels, and the grimy action figures in search of his long-forgotten and most favorite
partner-in-crime: his precious stuffed shark.
The more the boy searched, the denser the toys became and the harder it was to keep his feet planted
outside. As time passed, his body was already a bit more than waist-down inside the toy box without
managing a single glimpse of a stuffed animal, barely touching the floorboards. It only took a near-intangible
tap and fate’s own shrewdness to rob his legs of their balance and cause them to jerk upward, accidentally
closing the heavy lid with a loud thump! Gathering his bearings, the boy immediately started to kick the lid
desperately but in vain attempt, for the latch was locked from the outside. Then he opted for screaming,
hoping that his mother would hear, thinking it better to face her wrath again and apologize, rather than die
from suffocation. No response. The boy tried again. Nothing. Minutes felt like hours and sweat leaked
profusely from his temples as images about his slow and torturous death intruded his thoughts. He also