Short Story - Black Box

Black Box

The black box lived in the back of the closet since before they shut down the library the first time to tear out the asbestos. The back office had long been a dump for worthless junk that wasn't garbage. Not the strangest thing we pulled from the old library. The strangest thing was the cardboard box of annotated explicit magazines under the reference librarian’s desk. The collection spanned several decades and bore the handwriting of many different people. I refused to touch it without a hazmat suit.

The black box was about the size of a microwave. It took time, effort, sweat and the blood from my smashed thumbed to get it home. I ran a finger along the fresh gouge I'd made on the tabletop. I should have left it on the floor but I only had had that thought after the property damage.

I studied the lumpy surface, pressing the convex and concave features hoping to trigger a switch. Nothing happened.

I pushed it onto its side. The bottom had four black screws flush with the surface. It reminded me of the VCR I took apart once to retrieve a pile of colorful bits. I've always loved forcing open broken piece of electronics to see what bits I could find inside.

I found a driver to fit and started my attack on the screws. Black paint flaked off the screwheads. I muttered a prayer to the patron saint of handymen, “Right tight, left loose.” The screw began to turn. A rivulet of pink ran from the screw down the box to the tabletop.

I tapped my finger in the viscous goo. I imagined that all toxic things smelled like industrial cleaner. The goo didn't smell like cleaner, it smelled like lip gloss. I took a sponge to the table and successfully smeared it into the grain of the wood. I had stained the table and my index finger neon pink.

I covered the table with newspapers to protect it from further destruction (another thought I should have had sooner). I freed the screw from the casing. Goo continued to leak out. I went to the second screw, then the third and the fourth. Goo ran out of each hole.

I stuck the screw driver into one of the holes and pried the panel. The black paint cracked and the panel came free. I cheered. I lowered the panel and looked inside. Not wires, circuits or diodes. Veins, bone and membranes.

I heard Dad's footsteps in the hallway. He called out. “I’m home. How was the library? Get anything interesting?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer.

He stepped into the doorway. “What is that? What are you doing? And do I want to know?” The smile faded. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“What's wrong?”

I shook my head again. I clasped a hand over my mouth before I saw the stain. I backed away from the table. He blocked me from fleeing the room.

“You're scaring me. What's wrong?”

He stepped to the table and studied the box. He turned and smiled, "You're overreacting. This is not a big deal."