The Box of Seven Hells

Chapter One

The Box of Seven Hells

Mama told me afterward that it all started on a Thursday morning. Mama never did like Thursdays. She couldn't pin it down to just one thing. According to her, it was an accumulation of events.

         I was on the sidewalk in front of my house when the truck came. As I might have expected, it was a Chevrolet. Chevrolets and I just don't have any sort of affinity for each other.

          There I was, thinking about opening up my Tootsie Roll and rolling that delicious, chocolate taste around with the tip of my tongue, and that doggone Chevrolet truck snuck up and sideswiped me.

         The last thing I recall is hearing Mama shout, "Maria, don't eat that Tootsie Roll, that's Delicious."

          Mama, I knew it was delicious, that's why I was going to eat it.

          The force of the blow knocked me into our yard. Mama rushed me to the hospital; I was in a coma when we arrived.

         That Tootie Roll I was holding? For some reason Mama rushed it to the hospital too. I thank God I didn't eat it, it was to be a pivotable part of my life while I was in a coma.

***

At the present time, I can not communicate in any way, but I can think. Now and then, I can move.

          I am Maria Rosa. Here I lie, my body wrapped up in this thing called The Box of Seven Hells. A hurry is in my heart from want of escaping, but I am suffering the pain of patience forcing itself upon me. Have mercy on me, God.

         The doctors say I will never wake up. Sometimes, I hear them say I am in a perpetual coma. I don't know who they are, or where I am, but I do know my name is Maria, and I am in a place I will escape from.

         In my inner life, a part of my happiness is an old, lantern box. It is my world; I created it. Well, in truth it is a copy of Mama's old, lantern box. Occasionally, when I find myself in need of them; I make additions to the lantern box. Finding myself in The Box of Seven Hells, I created a virtual version of Mama's box to defend myself against the misery of the whims of The Box of Seven Hells. The Box of Seven Hells was gifted upon me by great-great-grandmother.

         Someday, I will repay her kindness.

         All the events and adventures which occurred inside the lantern box were participated in by Escape, the girl who dwelled inside me while I was incapacitated.

          I was imprisoned in The Box of Seven Hells against my will and without the benefits of a trial. Harm possesses a will of its own. Harm has entered my life for the purpose of destruction. But, it is my belief that my will is stronger than the will of harm. Even though being in the lantern box sometimes causes me pain; it is The Box of Seven Hells which consumes me . . .

          I do not even know what crime I have been accused of. I am innocent.

         The only crime I am guilty of is being a young girl called Maria. Inside me, my heart aches; I am confused.

          In some moments, when he is not beside me, I find myself thinking I am a Tootsie Roll named Delicious. Don't worry, to laugh is a good thing. On an occasion, when all is quiet, I think I hear voices, but . . .

         I do not trust them. I must not allow them to know I am aware they exist. They have changed me. My heart quivers with fear, for even though they appear to be, they are not doctors.

         "Mama?"

***

I was thirteen years old on the day of my imprisonment. Yes, I was happy there in the lantern box, but I was also sad. You see, through no fault of my own, I had taken on the appearance of a tintype photograph while I was inside the lantern box. A two by three, framed, tintype photograph to be exact.

          Each time I looked into the mirror I could see the frame taking shape, elongating itself until my face was entirely within it. No matter how much I thought about it, trying to retain my normal appearance, my reflection remained the same. Has evil crept into my box? From time to time, I smell its scent.

         Is there a crack in the lantern box by way of which The Box of Seven Hells can enter?

          You can see my concern . . . It furrows my brow every minute of my life. Did you ever look in a mirror and have a rectangular photograph in a walnut veneered frame stare back at you?

         How I came to be in these boxes, I will try to explain as best as I am able. It's a simple explanation really; it was that darn Chevrolet truck . . . Alright, I am lying; great-great-grandmother was responsible.

Maria Sees Betty Sue

My first awareness that I was in somewhat of a predicament was when I noticed my surroundings the few times I was able to open my eyes without The Box of Seven Hells seeing me do so.

         The first time I opened my eyes, the things I could see were some things from Mama's old, lantern box: Delicious, Betty Sue, Mister Lincoln and the rubber bands. But the tintype of great-great-grandmother was not there.

         Formerly, Delicious, Betty Sue, Mister Lincoln and the rubber bands were just some objects Mama picked up at an antique shop, but in this box of my creation, they were alive! As I looked upon them, nothing moved except their eyes as they watched me. I screamed many times, but no one heard, not even Mama. Mama-a-a-a! Fear grasped my throat as I squeezed my eyes shut.

          I don't recall how much time passed as I cowered, afraid to open my eyes. Sometime, during the presence of my fear, a voice began to speak softly, and a hand imparted its caress across my forehead.

In The Box of Seven Hells

The Box of Seven Hells holds me in its grasp. It is hard to breathe when the box takes itself a tighter grip. The Box of Seven Hells is so evil and relentless; at times, I am happy to wake up inside the lantern box. Yes, even though I am in a coma, there are times when I sleep, just as other people do. Sometimes, when I am aware, I will find myself in The Box of Seven Hells, to escape its clutch, the lantern box is my refuge.

         Great-great-grandmother laid The Box of Seven Hells on my forehead as she pretended to caress my cheek. I knew of its presence immediately. Its hands clutched at my temples, moved down to my cheeks and hovered over my throat . . .

         And I felt those hands coveting me, as a voice whispered in my ear, "I will strangle you later."

         I squirmed in my heart, but otherwise I was motionless, save for my lips, which called on the name of God.

          I heard great-great grandmother mumble as she walked away, "Sorry sweetie, but I have been in that box for forty five years, it's your turn now." Nausea cramped in my stomach, and fear called my name as I gazed upon her.

The Lantern Box

You see, before I was incarcerated in these boxes, I was a normal thirteen year old girl with happy dreams of my own. The light who formerly lived in my eyes is growing dimmer with each passing moment. At the present time, a part of my world is hell itself. The remaining part brings me happiness, but I miss my Mama.

         I can survive here in the lantern box, if I have a will to do so. It is The Box of Seven Hells which cripples me, brings me despair, consumes me . . . It took a long time for me to find a way to elude The Box of Seven Hells . . . Nothing I thought of was able to bring me relief, until the moment I thought of creating my own box. Thank you, God.

***

The lantern box was not the worst of places for a girl to be. There, whenever I found myself in need of something, I created it, like the time I gave Mister Lincoln those miniature wheelbarrows to haul his legal papers from place to place.

          Although there were the four of us confined in the box, I was the only one who could faintly smell the final vestige of the kerosene lantern who had formerly lived in the box; and at the time, I believed I was the only one tormented by The Box of Seven Hells and he who calls himself Mister Trepidation. Later, a suspicion built itself inside me that Delicious was also well acquainted with Mister Trepidation.

         Inside the box, we led a sheltered life, believing we were tucked safely forgotten among all the accumulated keepsakes one might find in an old lantern box.

          To Mama, the box was only a place where she might store a few things: an old, Lincoln penny, a photograph of her great-grandmother as a young girl, assorted rubber bands, that sort of thing. But now that it is gone, she misses it. Mama and I used to take it out of the closet almost every Thursday, just to look upon its contents. It never occurred to me, to ask Mama why the photograph of her great-grandmother was always face down . . .

          Mama, her sister and I lived together in our house. One day, Mama's sister stole the box and hid it in her room. I saw her do it, but was reluctant to tell Mama.

         Shortly after the box went missing, one night I think I saw great-great-grandmother. But how could that be? Great-great grandmother died in 1933. Still, she was standing at the foot of my bed, her brow deeply furrowed. I was so scared.

***

Betty Sue Tripletree, the broken and halfway discarded Adorno pencil sharpener, is my closest friend here in the lantern box. Betty Sue is beautiful. To see her move and dance is the sum of elegance and simplicity. True magnificence . . .

          Betty Sue's most fervent wish is that one day she will become whole again. Her fond ambition is to return to the old, wooden schoolhouse in South Dakota and sharpen the pencils of another generation of schoolchildren.

          A misplaced package of multicolored rubber bands surrounded us, spilled unknowingly by the hand who had not known they were there.

         To my left I could see an old, Lincoln penny coin from 1917. In 1922, Mister Lincoln was still brilliantly copper-colored. Now he sits there in his private corner, aged a light, chocolate brown and streaked with a pretty green and turquoise color from being exposed to the elements at some point in his life. Although he had lost most of his luster, I believed he was happy there in the box.

          As for myself, I thought constantly of being absolved from the crime I had not committed and being released from The Box of Seven Hells, but it was only on a seldom occasion I received a glimpse of life outside the box.

***

My memories of the outside are few and sometimes I feel a close kinship to Mister Lincoln. Like the patina he has acquired, I lie here brokenhearted, collecting dust and feeling my colors slowly fade. Whether or not I am aware, you may decide for yourself, but I can cry as anyone can, and I am alive.

          One day perhaps I will file a writ of habeas corpus, or some other remedy, if I can employ a lawyer willing to take up my case. Alas, Mister Lincoln is the only money I have access to. Dear, sweet Mister Lincoln! I don't think Mister Lincoln would mind sacrificing himself for a case such as mine, but will I be able to hire him for one cent?

         And of course, another problem presents itself. I must escape from The Box of Seven Hells in order to file any legal case in a court of law. I wonder . . . Is pro bono worth considering? I mean, how can I offer to pay Mister Lincoln with the only coin I possess, when that same coin is Mister Lincoln himself? You can see my quandary.

         And Mister Lincoln? He is not the sort of coin you might receive in exchange when you have made a purchase. Mister Lincoln is a coin of some distinction. He is alive just like myself. Mister Lincoln can walk, talk and breathe. I wonder if Mister Lincoln is aware I have claimed him as my own?

***

My fourth companion was an old-style Tootsie Roll, one of the originals. If I recall correctly, he informed me he was born in the year 1908. His skin was somewhat withered and hard with age. I like to think that one day it will become soft and pliable once more. He is so sweet. I call him Delicious. Every now and again, I hear Delicious mumbling curses at someone he calls Mister Trepidation. Ummm?

          Delicious is not your normal Tootsie Roll, he says. His genetic makeup consists of a preponderant amount of DNA from the original recipe and some other ingredient . . . Someday, I believe Delicious will tell me the secret of the something else part of him. My heart whispers to me that he is not actually a Tootsie Roll.

         Delicious' attire is resplendent. On either side of the centerpiece of his silvery-colored shirt, Tootsie Roll is printed, along with a U. S. patent and registration number. The centerpiece itself deftly catches the focus of the eye. Delicious Tootsie Rolls it proclaims in bold lettering.

***

There is not much for a girl to do here in the lantern box. Most often, it is dark and lonely here. Betty Sue and I do the best we can to cheer each other up. Our lives are mostly spent waiting for the dawning of day. To us, days are those times the lantern box has been opened and the precious light of day comes skittering through the roof.

          It is a possibility I am beginning to awaken. My awareness visits me off and on, but where is Mama?

         The dawning of day here in the lantern box invariably occurs on a Thursday just as it did in Mama's lantern box. Every Thursday our hearts come alive. We sing and dance as we reminisce of other Thursdays. Too soon, we hear a familiar, hated, grating sound as the lid of the box is nestled back into place.

          Are we resigned to our existence as our hearts crumple and we slowly sink back to our former places in the box?

          Betty Sue may be, but as I am contemplating, I become aware of a coming to birth in my heart. Whether or not Betty Sue will come with me, I have decided. I will extricate myself from this situation. My happiness is that Delicious says he will follow me anywhere.

          After the first few weeks af darkness in the lantern box, I installed fluorescent lighting. We no longer depended on Thursdays for light. How grateful we were to see each other clearly! Still, as they were wont to do, Thursdays came and went, and our hearts jumped at the expectation of them, for they held a special place in our memories.

***

Eventually, tiring of the stale air inside the box, I thought of air conditioning, and it came to be. Once, I even managed to escape, sort of. Delicious, Mister Lincoln and I made a little courtroom to practice having my case heard by a court of law. Mister Lincoln prepared my case diligently.

          We used two wheelbarrows to transport the stacks of papers Mister Lincoln presented to the court. It was so hard, pushing those things to the courtroom . . . But there was this silly rubber band who called himself a judge presiding over the case Mister Lincoln had filed in my behalf.

         Imagine a girl walking into a courthouse accompanied by a Tootsie Roll named Delicious and rolling a homespun lawyer named Mister Lincoln. I can still hear the judge grilling Mister Lincoln about his qualifications to practice law and making innuendos about eating Delicious.

         "Tell me sir, what exactly are your bona fides that allow you to have yourself rolled into my court and presume to be a lawyer? And you there, you smart-aleck Tootsie Roll, thinking is against the law in my courtroom. Wipe that smug look off your face and show some respect. By the way, this judge you're looking at has himself a sweet tooth for the cocoa bean flavor."

          "Well, your honor," Mister Lincoln puffed himself up and replied, "It's like this; I read Blackstone for seven years in a Springfield office and on occasions at Miss Grace's Emporium before I obtained my certificate of a good moral character." Where did you go to school, sir? Or did you go to school?

         And my favorite part of the whole escape was when I saw Delicious teetering on the precipice of jumping up and karate chopping that judge across the adam's apple. My eyes pled with him not to do it, and I was so happy to see Delicious grab his ire and hold it back from knocking the smirk off that fellow's face. Delicious is so sweet.

         I recall myself hopelessly standing in front of a judge who was filled up to his neck with conceit.

         I thought as I stood there listening to the judges remarks, How can I stand in a courtroom and plea with a judge to release me from The Box of Seven Hells when my lawyer is a penny? I must do this on my own. The three of us walked out of the courtroom, leaving behind us that silly fellow's jaw working up and down, stammering something about our audacity. Yes, the three of us had plenty of it. "Heh-heh"

Mister Trepidation

Mister Trepidation was on his way to work when he first noticed it. Something was beginning to disrupt his plans. Is it a tinge of regret I am feeling? Or is a dab of goodness doing a slow creep into my heart? I shudder to think that it is either one; I do not wish to be the first in my line to suffer such a degradation.

         This new assignment sticks in my craw when I think about it. One day, I am going to strike out on my own . . . Be darned with the Union of the Workers of Trepidation! After all, I am the inventor of The Box of Seven Hells. I am the only one who knows how to enter it, and I dwell in it from time to time.

         A snarl curled the left corner of his lips and skewed the vision in the same eye.

         Darn those bigwigs up at the front office; here I am, working two assignments at the same time, all because those office nerds wanted to save a few pennies from their dollars. Isn't that against union rules? I'll need to investigate that eventually.

          Today is to be my second day on the new assignment. Yesterday, I remained out of her sight. What is that little girl's name again? Mercy? Minnie? Maria? Yeah, Maria . . .

         To break down an uppity, renegade Tootsie Roll into segments and scatter his brain is one thing, but harming an innocent, young girl? Even for one such as myself, hesitation makes an appearance.

         I can not get past this new event, but over the course of time, I'll figure it out.

***

Something tiptoed out of his heart and began to pervade his total being. He took a tighter grip on himself, reached for the knob on the door to The Box of Seven Hells, twisted it, and stepped inside. Heh-heh, my hand is the key to the door of this box, and forget about cutting off my hand . . . My hand must be alive to open the box.

         Oh boy, I am going to relish this assignment. He skipped a couple of times and laughed. This is going to be easy, unlike dealing with that Tootsie Roll, Delicious. What kind of a name is that, anyway? The horror of it puts me three years closer to the grave.

          Why, that cocoa bean concoction had the audacity to defend himself when I started my operation against him. I made my moves with a losing hand in our first little game. Through no fault of my own, I was forced to make a tactical withdrawal from that engagement. But this box . . . I think the improvements I have integrated will sway the advantage toward me.

         Before approaching the patient's bed, Mister Trepidation opened up his lunchbox, looked at the possibilities, thought a moment, extracted a Tootsie Roll and bit off a piece just for the hell of it. Call it practice if that's the way you see it. Chewing vigorously, he sprinted the last few feet to get a firsthand look at his new toy.

          My new toy. I feel a soup of excitement beginning to circulate in my blood as I think of this assignment.

***

Mister Trepidation gathered himself, leaned over and whispered into Maria's ear. "Maria honey, wake up. It's your Mama. I brought you some real chocolate. Forget about that old Tootsie Roll, won't you? Taste this Hershey bar I got over at the Dollar Store. Come on now, honey. Wake up for your Mama. I brought you some licorice gumdrops, too. Wake up, honey."

         He was met with no response.

         Mister Trepidation frowned. He knew she was awake. He stood there for a minute or two, thinking it over before continuing. So, mister nice guy ain't getting me anywhere; I guess I'll have to tell you all about your daddy.

The Box of Seven Hells

He was back . . . Yesterday, even though she had not been able to see him, she had known he was there. A squirt of warm pee worked its way out of her and ran down her thighs, pooling beneath her before she could shut it off. Even though I hear him; I am not going to listen to him. My name is Maria, my name is Maria, my name is Maria.

         Mister Trepidation stepped closer. "Your daddy didn't die, sweetheart. Your mama lied to you. You see, he left her for a younger woman. Embarrassing, ain't it?"

         Maria felt the mattress move as if someone rested their head upon it. She turned in that direction, causing the blanket and her hospital gown to bunch up around her waist. It was then she realized the nurses had taken away her panties. Why did nurses always do that?

          A hint of breath upon her knees . . . Just a little bit closer, you evil bastard.

         Suddenly, taking two deep breaths, she released three powerful spurts of pee. As ugly as she thought her action was, and as the pee still spurted, satisfaction leaped in her heart . . . Self-defense can be ugly, but a girl does what she can.

Mister Trepidation

He felt the hot pee soaking his hair, rolling down his cheeks and stinging his eyes . . . Bewildered, he rolled off the bed, fell on the floor and staggered to his feet. Anger grabbed him as his feet slipped in the pee on the floor and he fell again. It seems as if I might have underestimated sweet, little Maria. Darn, I forgot to switch off my body cam! Erect once more, he grabbed his lunchbox and fled out the door.

***

In the office of the Union of the Workers of Trepidation, three slumped-over body cam monitors were startled awake as a fourth jumped up in the air and shouted as loud as he could, "Looks like we've got some action here, boys!"

         He hit the replay button. "Look at that! That stuck-up fellow who calls himself Mister Trepidation has gotten himself a mouthful of pee. Seems it was administered by that young girl he was strutting around here bragging about how Humiliation was going to be her middle name when he finished with her. Whoa doggies! Let's make a tape of this and play it on all the monitors the next time he steps through our door. We have ourselves a situation here!"

***

Back at his office in the building of the Union of the Workers of Trepidation, Mister Trepidation sneered as he thought of Maria. Who the hell does she think she is? Even though I was planning to be lenient during my entire operation dealing with her, I stink of her urine. After three showers, I can still feel it crawling along my cheekbones.

         And those office nerds, thinking they can humiliate me with a copy of my body cam tape, I have plans for them.

Maria

I was born in Virginia, and I have spent most of my life here. If a girl can love a piece of this earth, then I love Virginia. Loving Virginia, and living in The Box of Seven Hells are not two pieces of the same clay, though.

         One of the things which has kept me alive in the lantern box these past few months has been my memories of great-great-grandmother . . . Alas, those memories are second-hand, things which Mama has spoken of. Revenge is a terrible word, but sometimes I find myself wanting it. I will return you to The Box of Seven Hells, great-great-grandmother.

         More important things than revenge dwell inside me. There's Delicious, Betty Sue and Mister Lincoln, my dear friends. And there's Escape . . . She sleeps beside me in my lonely nights; not for a moment does she leave my side. Am I dreaming?

          Seldom does a day go by that I do not speak of great-great-grandmother to Betty Sue. Betty Sue can not answer my questions though. Sometimes in the dark, Betty Sue will tell me what she thinks. Occasionally, I can feel Betty Sue's whisper reaching for me across the darkness. "Ain't it a shame?" Betty Sue says. "Just think Maria, in another time or place, the two of you could have been sisters."

          Vaguely, I acknowledge Betty Sue's whisper, and I have heard it so many times I can comfortably predict her next words. She will say, "You know what? I think you must be a tintype photograph."

         I know in my heart Betty Sue is only teasing me. Even though my appearance strongly suggests I am close akin to a photograph, Betty Sue and I have the certain knowledge that I am human.

         That's the way Betty Sue and I are, like two fingers crossed. "For goodness' sake," I will say. "Betty Sue, you and I both know I am not a tintype photograph. You know how I suddenly appeared in this lantern box and how great-great-grandmother disappeared as you were looking at her.

         "Why don't you just hush up about it and get some sleep? I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be another Thursday." Then I will hear the echo I hear every time Betty Sue and I have this conversation, the echo I myself might have been the mother of.

          "Dear God," I pray. "Please tell me that I am not just a photograph. I realize from the chitter-chatter of Betty Sue, that she and I have a similar appearance, and Betty Sue seems so certain, but tell me this, please God. If I am a tintype photograph, why do I feel like crying and why do I have memories? Why do I pee?

         "Please God, help me out of these boxes."

***

I remember one of the first times I saw great-great grandmother. It was due to be a Thursday, and the box was frightfully dark. I could feel little goosebumps crawling across the pale, white skin of my arms as I listened for the sound of Thursday.

         Suddenly, I heard the lid of the box being lifted, and there she was, peeking into the lantern box. She appeared to be an exact copy of the tintype photograph missing from Mama's box . . . Sticking her tongue out at me, she laughed, dropped the lid back into place and left.

          I can see clearly today . . . Ah yes, great-great-grandmother now brings the lantern box to Mama every Thursday. And me? I reside in The Box of Seven Hells . . .

          Mama thinks great-great-grandmother is me, I thought. Don't worry, Mama. I will escape from this box and come home.

          Dear Lord, please help me.

***

On the other side of the box, I could hear Mister Lincoln encouraging Betty Sue. That's the way Mister Lincoln was, he didn't like it a bit if someone was depressed. "Elizabeth Susan," he was saying, "Keep your head up, honey. One day you will be an Adorno pencil sharpener again." I could almost hear Betty Sue's smile across the darkness.

          The little goosebumps had crawled to the backs of my arms and were inching, tickling me, upward. The tiny, onyx, pearl colored cat dangling from the silver chained necklace I wore spat out little sparks of static across the darkness as my gaze followed their seeming to be cat's spit across the arc of my sky.

          Extra thick slices of tension and despair clung to the air as if they were loaded spring traps waiting for the right moment to unspring in my heart, but I staved this action off, as I anxiously awaited the dawning of Thursday.

***

Last night I dreamed. As I await the dawn, I relive the dream's most lurid moments. Wednesdays are not my best nights, last night I dreamed I was a tintype photograph.

         Although the thought is unwelcome and I would flee from it if I could; I am not ashamed to admit, I am beginning to become uneasy. The feeling is thinking of purchasing itself a condominium in my heart and moving in permanently. But my heart is not inclined to put any space in its domain up for sale.

          Even though the dream seemed so real, I know deep in my heart the dream was a lie. I must keep it to myself. I can not even tell Betty Sue. The girl on the outside posing as me is the tintype photograph, and me? I am called Maria. I can cry, I can laugh and I am suffering.

          "Mama, Mama, I am in an old, lantern box at the hospital. Come and get me, Mama. I want to come home."

          Mama-a-a-a-a-a-a-a?