Utopia

Willy loved words. He kept them in a shoebox under his bed. His soft pink hands would caress the cold, blue, black painted box, and nibble with the top. A noise?

His skull would creak from under the bed, white eyes peeking out, illuminating the darkness with their glow. Alert. He was safe… for now. Smiling he returned to his prized acquisitions.

It annoyed me. How could my punk little brother not know how much of a creepy douche he looked like when he sneaked under his bed? I use to think he wanted to prove to everyone how much of a big boy he really was.

Wrath.

My mother’s voice groveled in my mind.
Nope… no longer afraid of the dark… not scared of the creepy crawlies either…. amazing yes… and at seven too… oh must have taken Sara at least three more years…

Nausea.

Why do we think that the “big kids” aren’t afraid of anything? I am more afraid now than I’ve ever been before. The boogie monsters are still, somewhat there, haunting me. Their words have grown, their eyes have become sharper, and their appetites more avid for my human blood.

The worst part is that I cannot escape them. These monsters feed on my memories. They are monsters of my own doing, and there is no use in turning on the light as that only clears their way. The area under my bed has multiplied itself, and Pandora, mighty Queen of Darkness, has found her way closer to home.

“Aiya. To the essence I say: her soul.” She screams.
“Yes maam!” The cytoxic cells follow her lead, engulfing and digesting all the bile which makes me unique. Finally, they reach my core.

I beg.

It is no use. Her long nails are already scratching at my doors.
“If you fight it I will have to kill you, just like I killed your illy brovuer Willy”

A pungent taste lingered in my mouth.

Willy.

It all came back, that last year – how valiantly he fought against leukemia, how young he was, and how curious. How he loved words, how he kept them in that shoebox under his bed, and how I use to think he was such a weirdo for doing so. The queasiness got worse, Willy was gone, and all I had left were his words; italic etches on scrappy pieces of paper. Paper which would soon rot. Willy, like paper, would too soon rot.

Pandora’s eyes glittered.
“Now! There, STRIKE, STRIKE!”
There is no strength inside me now, and she knows it. Advancing, she nibbles with the top for just one second more then she should, and then allows her pursed mouth to fall and release a high pitched laugh that issues the deadly blow.
My insides tremble and fluid seeps out. Yellow, almost like a waterfall of urine and uncertainties. I gasp. I must fight. Willy fought. My arms and legs spatter helplessly whilst I gurgle in his memory for one last time.

WILLY…. Willy… … willy?

It is done. She has wiped my memories and finally my sullied aura may glow. I smile more often now as the mask stuck to my face is thick, golden, perfect. I am no longer haunted. I no longer cry for the boy who locked words in a box, for I myself am locked in the promised calm that follows the storm – alas, utopia.