Project Pandora

by Aden Polydoros

Victoria punched Alan’s elbow hard enough to make him groan. “One more word, you little perv, and your doctor’s gonna have to extract your head from your ass.”

  “I’ll help you light it next time,” Shannon said, passing the pipe to Victoria.

  “Thanks,” Tyler said to her. His mouth was dry and acrid, as if all his saliva had dissolved. He didn’t feel anything. Had he done it wrong?

  “Just don’t breathe in like that,” Shannon added. “Take it slow and deep.”

  “That’s what she said,” Alan said, earning a collective scoff of disgust. Tyler wished he had met Shannon elsewhere, in better company.

  From Victoria, the pipe went to Alan, then back to Shannon, who sanitized it with the flame.

  “Afraid of cooties?” Alan asked.

  “More like herpes,” she said drily, then took a hit. She paused. “It’s cashed. Tyler, can you give me the tin, please?”

  He passed her the tin so that she could refill the bowl. Already, he began to feel calmer, and the room acquired a pleasant ambiance.

  As Shannon sorted out the buds and leaves from the stems and hard bits, Tyler found himself transfixed by her hands. They were small and delicate. Her ruby nail polish was chipping at the edges, which gave her an endearingly tomboyish quality.

  Shannon turned to him and handed him the pipe. She stood as he placed the end of the pipe between his lips.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, staring into his eyes.

  “Yeah,” Tyler said, and as she lit the bowl, he inhaled. This time, the smoke went down a lot smoother, and he was able to hold it inside his lungs for several seconds before being forced to exhale.

  She giggled. “Hey, you actually did a good job this time. No coughing.”

  He leaned back against the sofa, losing himself in a pleasant daze. A soothing weight pressed down on the right hemisphere of his face. He couldn’t tell if his eye was twitching or not, but he felt spasms and tingling beneath the skin, as if the lids were starting to shrink. The sensation in his legs had begun to wane, and he thought that if he tried to stand, he wouldn’t be able to.

  His gaze shifted to Shannon once more. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds flowed across her auburn hair, drawing out shades of gold and burgundy. It was striking.

  Third hit.

  Alan looked at him and said, “Do you want to murder?”

  The warmth drained from Tyler’s body. “What?” He stumbled over the word. Something seemed caught in his throat, as if he’d accidentally gotten another Scooby Snack, only his mouth tasted raw and bloody instead of acrid and chalky. He swallowed, but it didn’t help. Maybe he’d bitten his tongue.

  “I asked if you want a margarita.”

  “Oh, uh, no thanks.” He felt slightly unbalanced. Hoping to clear his throat, he popped open a can of Sprite and lifted it to his lips. Though the drink was lukewarm, it washed the taste of gore from his mouth.

  “Have another hit,” Alan said and tried to hand him the pipe again.

  “I’m good,” Tyler said.

  “Now you’re just trying to get him wasted,” Victoria said, giggling.

  “Guilty as charged.” Alan chuckled, only to glance in his direction. His grin faded into a perplexed frown. “Tyler?”

  I did something terrible.

  For no reason at all, his heart began to race, and strange tremors seized him, beginning in his shoulders and spine but quickly crawling downward, until even his legs were shaking. His vision seemed to dim around the edges until he couldn’t see the walls on either side of him.

  I hurt someone very badly.

  The air grew heavier, thick with the stenches of blood and gunpowder. He gagged on the noxious odors, pressing his hand over his mouth.

  Shannon’s lips moved rapidly, but he didn’t hear what she was saying. Her voice was drowned beneath his own gasps for breath. In an instant, his windpipe had constricted to the size of a pinhole. In the glow of the lamp overhead, everything dimmed into monochrome, and darkness collapsed in on him.

  Alan grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, you okay, man?” His voice came to Tyler as though from across the room, distant and echoing.

  Something happened to me.

  “Gonna be sick,” he choked, dropped the soda can, and rushed for the front door. The air in the room was too smothering, the ceiling lowering by the second. If he stayed there any longer, he would suffocate.

  As soon as he made it outside, his breathing slowed, the weight on his lungs lightened, and he began to feel a little better. He sat down on the concrete back porch and stared at the scraggly patches of grass around the red charcoal grill.

  “Are you all right?” a soft voice asked from behind him.

  “I’m fine,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to find Shannon staring down at him. “It was just a panic attack, I think.”

  “I get those sometimes, too. Not when I’m smoking, but just in general.” She sat down next to him, close enough to bump shoulders, and passed over an unopened water bottle. “Drink this.”

  “Thanks,” he said, unscrewing the lid.

  “Do you have anxiety?” she asked.

  “How did you know?” He took a sip of the cool water.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes I say strange things, too, when I’m stressed.”

  “Wait a minute, I was talking?”

  A vague smile touched her lips. “You said, ‘When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see myself. And then I picked it up and used it.’”

  Tyler groaned. “I think I’m going insane.”

  “Weed and anxiety don’t mix all that well.” Shannon paused. “You aren’t on meds, are you?”

  “No, I just see a counselor.” He decided not to mention that Dr. Kosta had a degree in psychiatry. “It’s really not that bad. It’s not like an anxiety disorder or anything. Just stress from school.”

  “Still, you should’ve said something,” she said. “I’m sorry if I pressured you to smoke and all.”

  “It’s fine. You didn’t know, and I feel better now.” He dug the heel of his shoe into the dirt, digging a small hole. “Hey, when you’re feeling anxious, do you ever get this sensation like you’ve done something wrong?”

  Her forehead creased. “What?”

  He almost didn’t answer, afraid that she would think he belonged in an asylum. Then, deciding that he had already proven he was a straitjacket candidate, he said, “It feels like déjà vu. It’s like I’ve done something horrible, except I can’t remember it.”

  The lines in her forehead deepened, and she nibbled her lip in thought. As traffic buzzed in the distance and a jet passed overhead, Shannon nodded.

  “All the time,” she said, and in her deep brown eyes, he saw a reflection of his own secret fear. That the intuition was real.

  ...

  When Tyler returned home from Alan’s house, he tossed a TV dinner into the microwave and sat at the kitchen counter while he waited for the meal to heat. No surprise, his foster parents weren’t back yet. They both worked late, and their daily commutes extended their combined travel times by a couple of hours.

  As the smell of precooked chicken filled the room, he stared at the patterned linoleum, thinking about Shannon Evans. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed her, considering how she sat in the same row as him during English. He had watched her in the corner of his eye and heard her respond to Mr. Preston’s questions. But for some reason, he had never felt comfortable approaching her.

  He took out his smartphone and brought up the contacts list. Before he had left Alan’s house, he had asked Shannon for her number. Now, he wondered if he should text her. She hadn’t drunk anything and, by the time she had left, had assured him that she was sober enough to get home safely. Still, he regretted that he hadn’t given her a ride.

  Would it be too soon to text her?

  After starting a new message, he typed in: Are you home yet?

  He read it over then deleted it. Too creepy.

  The microwave ti
mer went off, but he remained seated, thinking about a better first text to send. At last, he wrote: Did you get home safely?

  Tyler thumbed the send button before he could decide against it. He stared at the smartphone for thirty seconds, waiting for her to respond. Then he sighed, set the phone on the counter, and rose to his feet, cursing Alan under his breath. Why had he ever thought she would want to talk to him again after listening to Alan’s obnoxious flirting attempts?

  Tyler walked to the other side of the kitchen. As he opened the silverware drawer, an electronic ping caught his attention. He rushed back to the counter and snatched up his smartphone.

  He grinned. A new text had been sent.

  Shannon: Yeah.  Thanks for asking. How are you doing?

  He sighed once more. She would probably never be able to look at his face without remembering how he couldn’t even smoke a joint without losing his cool. He typed in a quick response, then smiled when she responded seconds later.

  Tyler: Better. Sorry to freak out on you like that.

  Shannon: No, it’s OK! Don’t apologize!!!

  Tyler: I swear it’s not a regular thing with me.

  Shannon: Like I said, I have anxiety too. I get it.  If you ever need to talk to someone, I’m always here!

  Tyler: Same.

  Case Notes 6:

  Persephone

  Gasping for breath, Elizabeth Hawthorne jumped straight up and brought her arm down. The volleyball slammed against her fist and shot onto the other side of the net.

  A girl on the opposing team tried to reach the ball but was not quick enough to prevent it from striking the floor.

  “Point!” Coach Slate called, clapping her hands. “And we’re out of time! Good game, girls. Time to get cleaned up.”

  Elizabeth went into the locker room. Girls in various stages of undress clustered around the lockers and preened themselves by the sinks.

  After retrieving her towel, toiletries bag, and a change of clothes from her locker, she stepped into one of the shower cubicles and undressed. She set her clothing on a bench outside the stall, out of the water’s range.

  As she massaged shampoo through her hair, her thoughts drifted to the fundraising banquet and the boy she had met there.

  Hades had haunted her for the past week. She had dreamed about him twice, and though the days passed, the beautiful, feral face she envisioned became no less clear. If anything, time only refined her memory of him, and she began to recall small details she had only briefly noted during their encounter. Like the way his fingers had felt against her arm, so warm, and how one side of his mouth had a tendency to lift higher than the other when he smiled. Or how, as he had passed under the chandelier, the glow of many candles had revealed a deep, bluish undertone to his raven hair.

  Craning her face toward the showerhead, Elizabeth closed her eyes.

  Why couldn’t she get him out of her head? Okay, he was really, really gorgeous, but so were other boys, and it wasn’t like she’d ever see him again. Besides, she didn’t even know if Hades was his real name.

  As the warm water coursed down her back, she wondered what he would look like underneath his clothes.

  An image came to her. In her mind’s eye, she saw Hades from behind, under lights far harsher than those at the banquet. His muscular back faced her, and the bright fluorescents left his pale skin as white as snow.

  She sighed, allowing her hands to travel down her body. With her eyes closed, she could almost believe that it was his fingers that so teasingly traced the ridges of her rib cage before lowering, lowering.

  Suddenly, seams of blood appeared like stigmata, spreading down his back in a pair of crimson wings. His milk-white skin furled away under terrible force, and gore ran down the hard contours of his muscles from numerous overlapping incisions.

  Elizabeth’s eyes shot open. She found herself shaking uncontrollably with her arms wrapped around her body. Bile burned like acid on her tongue, and her vision blurred.

  Even as she closed her eyes again and tried to conjure a pleasant scene of a field of wildflowers under a dusky sky, she couldn’t escape from that lasting image.

  Why had she imagined something so terrible?

  Invasive thoughts, she told herself as she opened her eyes. They’re only invasive thoughts, just like Dr. Kosta said. Nothing to worry about.

  To calm herself, she practiced the deep breathing exercise that her psychiatrist had taught her. She inhaled for four seconds, held her breath inside her, and then slowly exhaled. She repeated the exercise as she washed off the soap suds, and by the time she had dried herself, she felt much better.

  After getting dressed, she stopped in front of the mirror to brush her hair and touch up her makeup. She reapplied concealer to the thin, pale scars on her cheeks and chin.

  Over the last two years the scars had faded, until they were practically invisible, but her gaze was still drawn to them continuously. She often found herself stroking the tiny marks without realizing it, the same way another person might finger the beads of a rosary.

  She told herself that she should be grateful the broken glass hadn’t blinded her or torn her face to shreds. The car accident could have been much worse. Still, every time she noticed the scars, she felt uneasy.

  It wasn’t just that she hated how they looked. It went much deeper than that.

  In a way, even looking at her own face troubled her. She noticed small details that she was almost certain hadn’t been there before the car accident. Sometimes, she expected to see a tiny beauty mark near the corner of her left eye, only to realize it had never existed to begin with.

  She stepped into the hall. The school was practically deserted at this hour, and it creeped her out to walk the halls alone. She moved at a swift pace, heading straight for the exit.

  “Elizabeth!” a girl cried from behind her.

  She looked back, startled. The design committee meeting ended fifteen minutes after volleyball practice, so she wasn’t surprised to spot a familiar cloud of strawberry-blond curls when she turned around.

  “Look at my hands,” Rachelle said, throwing them up in dismay. Black paint had stained her skin and nails. “No matter what I try, it won’t wash off. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Beautiful banners, though,” she said, passing under a crepe-festooned display advertising the Halloween dance.

  “Well, yeah, but still. Such sacrifice!” Petite and vivacious, Rachelle had a personality as intense and colorful as the neon-pink nail polish she wore.

  “Do you already have a costume picked out?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not yet,” Rachelle said. “What about you?”

  She shook her head. She decided not to tell Rachelle that her parents had insisted on reviewing potential costumes beforehand. Parents chaperoned school events, and the last thing her family wanted was people gossiping about the senator’s daughter and her trashy outfit. Impressions were everything.

  “We should go shopping together,” Rachelle said. “For moral support. Are you free Saturday?”

  “Yeah,” Elizabeth said, smiling. Why not? It’s not like her parents would have a total meltdown if she came back with a modest, tasteful costume. Besides, she felt silly and immature having to try on outfits with her mom hanging over her shoulder. Sometimes, it was like her parents viewed her as a fancy pet instead of a person, something to parade around during press conferences and dinners. A pretty creature kept on a tight leash.

  “Yay,” Rachelle said. “This year, you’ll be something more exciting than Alice in Wonderland. I won’t let you get a boring costume like that.”

  “Hey, Rachelle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did a boy named Hades used to go to our school?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Hades?” Rachelle asked blankly. “What kind of name is that?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s from Greek mythology.”

  Rachelle cocked her head. “How do you spell it?”

  “H-A-D-E-S.”

>   “Well, what was his last name?” Rachelle whipped out her rhinestone-encrusted cell phone. “Let’s see if we can find him online.”

  “He didn’t tell me. Honestly, I’m not even sure if Hades is his real name.”

  Rachelle lifted her eyebrows. “So, wait, he gave you a fake name?”

  “I think it’s just his nickname.”

  “But you think you know him from, um, before?”

  Elizabeth sighed. It was so uncomfortable talking about her life before the car crash, mainly because she could only remember the haziest details of it. Even Rachelle had seemed like a complete and utter stranger at first.

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s just, the moment I saw him, I felt…nostalgic, and happy, and safe. Like he could protect me from anything. I’ve never felt that way before.”

  It had been almost a week since the fundraising banquet, but she still couldn’t get him out of her head.

  “Aw, how sweet.” Rachelle giggled, typing into her phone. “Someone has a crush! Well, what does he look like?”

  “Drop-dead gorgeous,” she admitted. “He’s tall, muscular. Black hair, bright blue eyes. I’ve never seen eyes that color before.”

  What she didn’t say was that he reminded her of a fallen angel, carved in shadow and sullen light. Or how that same evening, she had lain awake for the longest time, unable to get his face out of her head.

  “You should’ve taken a picture of him,” Rachelle said.

  “I wish I did. I don’t even have his number.”

  Rachelle paused. “You said his name was Hades, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, according to Google, Hades is basically, like, the god of hell in Greek mythology, or whatever.”

  “I know.”

  “Why would he have a nickname like that? Don’t you think that’s a little weird, Elizabeth? I mean, it’s like calling yourself Satan. Hashtag let’s not meet.”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “For all you know, he might be an assassin! Like in Kill Bill!”

  Elizabeth laughed. “You think he’s going to target my father?”

  “Just think about it. I mean, it makes sense with a name like that.”