Flash Fiction, 300 words. One child's curiosity leads to a painful story.
|At the age of ten, no floor in the house was sparred from my convoy of toy cars. Once bored of one room, I moved them to another. Then I grew bolder, started using them on higher surfaces. Through this experimentation, a discovery was made. In my parent's room there sat an opal box, on a shelf above their queen-size bed.
I brought the box down onto the floor, but before it could be opened: my mother intervened.
“Daniel, under no circumstances are you to open this! You’ll get to see when you’re old enough,” said my mother. She returned it back to its resting place. Her face told me that it contained something extremely valuable. The fact I wasn’t allowed to see inside felt the most alluring experience I’d ever known.
For the rest of that day, I couldn’t return to play nor enjoy myself. That box sat at the forefront of my imagination. This obsession spilled over to bedtime, the hooks were embedded deep, being pulled by a chain, one operated on a relentless winch.
I even dreamed about the box resting on a pillar, it stood proudly illuminated under a spotlight. The lid flipped open and erupted. Instead of magma projecting out of the top, it was all the things I desired the most. Toys, chocolate, money.
The ebb and flow of temptation became too much. At the next opportunity, I pulled the box down once again. I flipped the lid and found a small quilt covering a load of baby memorabilia.
To my horror, I saw an order of service. I quickly bunged the contents back in and returned it safely, undetected.
When I became a teenager she explained that I had an older sister, who passed away due to meningitis, just days after being born.