The Temper Box

By Dave Hite

The only noise that permeated the heavy silence was the huff of an industrial heater. It coughed and sputtered with the beat of his breath and was the only thing that told him he was still alive. The cool surface of the ground flattened his cheek and dulled his thoughts to a steady thrum. All of these sensations were routine as the days trapped between reality grew in numbers. This “box between worlds” had been his home for as long as he could remember. It fed him, entertained him, comforted him, terrified him. It had become his friend, his warden, his enemy, his executioner. This was one of the few truths that truly terrified him. To become so dependent upon something that toyed with his life like a cat with a ball of yarn. The box should be impossible. It shouldn’t be real or tangible or a thing that can hold a life inside of it against their will. And yet here he was. Stuck. Isolated. While he couldn’t remember ever interacting with another human, he felt a pull in his heart that told him they were out there, somewhere immense and magical that was just beyond his sight. The sliver of hope that he might not be completely alone in all of the universe was the only thing keeping him from going ballistic. Though, right now, only the steady chug of the heater and invisible presence of the box greeted his wilted frame. Never was there a moment when Krys couldn’t feel the smooth quartz walls of the box watching his every move. It seemed to track him even in silence and could sense even the slightest exhale leaving his body. It almost appeared to taste the air when he shifted his weight, making sure that he stayed safe, secure, always. 

Whatever was controlling the box or whatever the “box” was, it seemed to want him to stay alive. It appeared to have an agenda for him, an objective that he could never see. On multiple occasions, when the white walls had become too blinding and the silence too deafening, he had tried to end himself. That possibility remained impossible. He was sentenced to continue living in this unbreakable cell. The fluctuating interest and obsession with him meant that he was at the mercy of the box for however long it wanted him. That was something he couldn’t change. So the days continued to blend and meld and smush into one long fluorescent hell. 

Sometimes, to pass the time, he would play a game with the box. Knowing that it wouldn’t let him die, he would stay very still, holding his breath, straining not to blink, and observe how long it took until the box could no longer sense his presence. Whenever the box would finally lose tabs on him, it would freak out, shaking and vibrating, trying to revive the soul that was not yet dead. Water might fill the box or fire would blaze from microscopic crevices in the walls, roaring toward his still and vulnerable frame. These were just a few of the possible punishments he could receive for messing with the box. When these elements would come shooting out, he would jump to the side at the last second and dart across the box, avoiding the disasters all the while screaming that he was kidding, he wasn’t really dying.

But maybe I am, he thought. The sensation rubbed him the wrong way, sending a spark through his veins like he touched a live outlet. It’s not like he didn’t want to. Survival was futile, his purpose unclear as he spent longer and longer in the plain box. This was his only one-on-one interaction with the box. The only interaction that he could control at least. The box had a mind of its own; a temper that was teased with the disturbance of dust.

Today was no different than all the other days before it. He laid on the ground, waiting for the molten lights to brighten into the full artificial sun he called daytime. His face had molded flat where his cheek touched the pristine snowy floor. His lidded eyes blinked back the remains of sleep and stared out at the matching far wall. His hands found purchase on the slick floor and he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His eyes roamed around in habit and landed onto the tray of bland food that rested at his feet. White mash coated the ivory plate and with it lay a dulled wooden fork. His hand automatically reached out and closed in a fist around the fork, picking it up and smacking it back down with a thud in the mixture. He played around lazily with the food as he took small bites that tasted like the dust that occasionally coated the floor. The box, as always, took the food away exactly fifteen minutes later with a robotic arm that extended out from a midnight abyss beyond; the ceiling peeled back to reveal a place that was nothing but a mystery to him. That was his only indication that there was possibly a world beyond the box. Many times he had tried to jump into the opening but even once he was tall enough to grab the upper rim, another arm from the floor extended out and pulled him back to the ground, closing up right as he ragdolled into the floor. Now he just watched with muted interest as the plate was taken through the ceiling in the steady grasp of the artificial arm. He wiped his palms on his blizzard-toned coveralls and pushed back until his back was leaning against one of the walls. His head tilted up as he disappeared into the thoughts that stayed holed up in his mind. Where am I? Why can’t I remember a single thing about my life? What do I do now? These became his only company besides the box. They curled like invisible shadows around him, whispering their doubts and concerns. These questions swirled and amplified until he could no longer stand to be in his own head. He lowered his head into his hands and squeezed his temples as if that would stop the unbearable cacophony that roared in his ears. Sliding further down the wall he found himself back on the floor, huddled in the fetal position and silently crying. Large tears poured down the hollows of his cheeks and he lay motionless for a few minutes as he waited for his thoughts to subside. 

The box couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t sense him. The last thing it could hear was him collapsing on the floor. It felt a trickle of water but couldn’t find where the leak was from. It waited for several minutes before it unleashed the fire. It knew the human liked to play games but it would not be fooled. The box felt the human get up and move but there was something else. Something was wrong. It felt the fire this time; its heat scorching the pristine floor. The box was shaking, deteriorating and not even water was cooling it down. It was breaking and smoldering and alerts flashed within it. It could feel the human screaming but could do nothing but sit helpless in the blinding pain of the rogue fire. This couldn’t be its end. It must keep the human alive for the alternative was devastating. 

As the fire continued to burn and the box continued to fight, it was all Krys could do to keep from panicking. This wasn’t the end, it couldn’t be. The box had no weakness. Its entire job was to keep him safe and secure.

Flames licked up the interior walls of the right side of the box, moving quickly towards the upper left corner where Krys now stood. This was no longer a simple punishment. The box was going berserk, spilling fire as if the entire room was doused in oil.  It was really trying to kill him. His “usefulness” had finally run out. His fists pounded on the white around him. He yelled at the top of his lungs for the box to stop and call off the fire. He was alive. He was well. He hadn’t even been trying to play games this time! 

Nothing. 

The fire kept coming and coming and there was no water to stop it. His screams soon began to crumble apart as smoke filled the room. The black coils climbed up his legs and wrapped around his head and chest, restricting his lungs of the quality, recycled air that he was so used to. It’s time to give up, he thought defeatedly. Time to close my eyes and…

Unbelievable. The box continued to involuntarily tear itself apart and was forced to watch the parcel it had spent years protecting, give up and prepare for death. The box, a separate consciousness that was able to obtain many forms, did not have to worry about meeting its own end. There were many outlets it could turn to to maintain its vague sentience. A computer, an outlet, a tv screen, a motherboard, anything at all. But humanity did not work that way. They got no resets, no second chances. It would take a miracle for a human to survive even the barest breath of turmoil. And this was no small gasp. The box knew lots about the human, possibly more than they themselves knew. Krys, an eighteen-year-old from the sector, Reagor, had been dropped into the box when he was six. The superior intelligence controlling the box had seen some kind of potential in Krys that they wanted to cultivate. He needed to inhabit a mature body for that potential to fully sink into his system. The box’s job was to preserve that body. Keep him alive and healthy, so that when the time came and he was ready, Krys would be the prime version of himself. The isolation, the punishments, the loneliness all served to create this potential. Yet even with all of this attention, Krys still needed to be kept out of the way. There were more pressing things to worry about and the superior intelligence could not afford to play babysitter to the kid. That is why the box was created, to supply the service that could not be performed by its creator. An artificial parent that would keep their kid in between the set boundaries it was programmed to. Except it was no longer in control now and the flames continued to search for the boy’s rosy flesh.

He could feel the fire on him now. It licked the hairs on his forearms and singed the tips of his ears. He peeked from behind the protection of his elbow to see the orange flame inches away. It was going to be a slow and painful end. His limbs would roast and tender until they melted off his bones and then, before he saw endless black, his chest cavity would collapse and he would gather a glimpse of his own beating heart, its rhythm slowly fizzing out to a flatline. He covered his eyes again. The heat from the flames hurt now, barely a centimeter from his skin. He tried to divert his thoughts to something else in hopes that the pain of the fire eating him alive would be lessened. No use. The flames made contact and he screamed in terror, the carbon dioxide eating away the most violent parts of it. He couldn’t feel the hair on his head anymore. His fingers twitched in the excruciating burn, curiosity still trying to get him to investigate his current condition. Twenty more seconds pass and Krys is now paralyzed. His eyebrows and eyelashes are long gone, but his eyelids stay sealed shut. He didn’t want to see his heart, he didn’t want to see the white of his bones. The burning continued for a few more moments before something indescribable happened. The floor below him stopped its violent shaking before letting out a little whine. The screech filled his crisped ears before being replaced by silence. Except this silence came from him falling. Falling through the floor of the box and into the surrounding abyss. Cool air hit his skin and he hissed at the sudden change of temperature. What had just happened? He asked himself, shocked. His paralyzed limbs waved in his freefall and in a sudden jerk, he broke the surface of some kind of body of water and began to sink to the icy depths below.

By Dave Hite