47. Pandora’s Box
Pandora. Not the planet with tall blue beings, giant fluorescent birds and luminous flora. Not a planet at all. But a girl. What type of girl, men could not agree. Historical fact, men could never agree whenever it came to pussy.
Some say she was a goddess, or rather, a watered down goddess. Others describe her as the original woman, somewhat like Eve. Only, instead of biting into a juicy fruit, she opened a stupid box, which wasn’t even a box in the first place, but a jar. How dumb is that? Whatever, Biblical or Mythical, it’s always us females that are blamed for the fuckedupness in the world today.
Still others proclaim Pandora was a punishment Zeus sent on man. She was adorned by the Olympians and given talents which drove males insane. I prefer this interpretation. Yah, I’m still accused for all the evils caused by, in truth, dickheads, but at least I’m hot and gifted. Sure sounds like a clear case of pussy envy to me.
Then there are those who mention she is the bane of her father. While dad possessed the willpower to fight urges, poor Pandora could not help but submit to her capricious curiosity to unscrew the bloody lid.
And with that innocent act of ignorance came the decay of existence. Hope remaining in the jar; that was her story. Whether it pertains to a good thing, this virtue not lost, or a record low pessimism that hope was not released alongside the deluge of wickedness, again remains a point of debate.
For me, I actually don’t remember much before the night of that weird dream. When I was roused, the first emotion which cascaded over my long fringe was love. Love for father. I recall making his favourite, bacon and sunny-side-ups, for breakfast. Brunch actually, `cos he’d woken up late. And perhaps that was the happiest moment of my life, squishing around that kitchen floor, absorbing the expression of gastronomic satiation on his face. I don’t know why, but I don’t remember the particulars before fourteen. Except for his first time. But then again, that incident stayed in my head because of cheesecakes. It was my virgin marble cream utopia. Not because of the ritualistic desecration he performed on me. I know it wasn’t a good thing, and maybe that’s why my mind’s mechanism was to shut down the memories.
Simply, epiphany came on me. It was as if I were two persons - one before the dream; the other, after. Like some spirit floating down from Hell to possess me once awake. Such, the last two years, I remember everything. All the minute intricacies, the detailed fingerprints of contact, seared fresh as if it were only yesterday.
I love him; I hate him. How can two extremes exist in a single soul? What he’d done to me, he should be incarcerated. Incinerated! But there’s this hooded flesh that’s captivated by his perverse deeds. Like I said, I was happy the day after. Joyful, elated, I just wanted to please him. Please daddy. But his disgusting actions accompanied by slinging semen, showcased together with the crescendo of yodelling techniques, brought back the brood in me.
Post-ejaculation, he transforms into exemplary dad once again. Cries, `cos mummy died at childbirth; died while delivering me. The purest sacrifice, the offering of a mother; and he parades her on the highest pedestal. Stroking my hair behind the ears, daddy says he loved mummy. Loved mummy very much. I am all he has to remind him of her, the heir from her loins.
He would tell me how they met, stories of their courtship. How he proposed, which was at a Hawaiian beach, the tide washing up her knees during an orange sunset, ocean weighing her white linen dress down. Drenched and salted like anchovies, he on one knee, mother’s hand is on her mouth, spilling champagne, high-priced fruit juice, and father, cradling a modest magenta velvet box, exposed as if a crab’s claw clutching a most exquisite twelve carat sphere of marital bliss.
Can’t help falling in love croons from a romantic canopy by the shoreline, and mum, as karaoke backup, sings yes, yes, yes out of key.