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…The box fell from my third story window at an alarming rate. I could practically SEE the anime-style action lines accompanying it on its way down to the concrete. When it hit the ground, it embedded itself into the sidewalk like a meteor, creating a loud THUD and a small shockwave of movement. The roaches, ants, and whatever viruses make that patch of sidewalk their home will most certainly have something to talk about at the water cooler. I was both shocked and relieved about it hammering into the ground like that. I REALLY wanted to know what could be inside there that could change mass at the drop of a dime, almost by its MOOD, but I was happy to know I wasn't the guinea pig. At least, not all the way.
I nervously paced around the apartment, every few seconds peering out the window, looking down at the box. It was still there. If I saw someone pick up the box (unless it was like the Sword and the Stone, and it wouldn't LET anyone pick it up but me…) would I warn them? Would I fight them? I would, more than anything, love to follow them, and study how it reacts to someone else. Or to see if anyone else even NOTICES all of its living qualities. Maybe if someone else opened it they would just find a box of sharp objects or something. The expression "fly on the wall" couldn't be more fitting for what I wanted to be at that point. I wanted to spend years studying teleportation, build a teleportation device, test it by sending a baboon through it, horrifyingly but accidentally mutilating it in the process, only to discover the kinks in the machine, fix them, and send MYSELF through the machine. Only, unlike Seth Brundle, I would PURPOSELY put a fly in the machine with me. And when my transformation was complete, I would then work on my shrink-ray. After years, my plan would be complete, and I could then spend my entire 2-week lifespan puking, spreading disease, feasting on a delicious meal of shit, and WATCHING what happens to whoever picked up the box. I would be the ultimate voyeur. OR..i could let it go. Teleportation is probably harder than it sounds.
My arms and hands had light lesions covering them where the tendons (?) groped me, and where I cut myself trying to fight them off with the scalpel. The cuts stung, but nothing more than an average scrape. They just made me look very self-abusive. And they reminded me of the darkness. I closed the window and went into the bathroom to shower off the night. I had to work in an hour, and I doubt Mr. Ferlon would buy the old "i-got-a-weird-box-at-4-in-the-morning-and-it-attacked-me" excuse, so I turned on the hot water and let the bathroom steam up before I undressed.
5:46 PM
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