The Package
By Sean Scully


“But I didn’t order any package!” she protested.
“You opened the door.”
“So?”
“So whether you ordered one or not, the action of opening the door signifies an agreement to receive.”
“Says who?”
“Lady – do you know how far I’ve come to deliver this package?”
“No.”
“Far.”
“But that’s your -”
The deliveryman folded his arms, and deep furrows appeared on both sides of his face. He looked like a cauliflower on the verge of an existential crisis. She sighed heavily, knowing then, that her cause was lost. When one party in a fight plays the “volatile vegetable” card, there is nothing you can do but fold.
“Fine”, she said. “Bring it in.”
He brought it in, and just as quickly as he had entered, he was gone.
Alone in her apartment, she sat down to examine the package.
It was package-shaped.
Other than that, she could tell only that it looked like it had been left outside to soak up the majority of the water dropped by a passing monsoon.
“Well” she said. “Let’s see who sent you, and who it was who was meant to receive you.”
But no sender’s name could be seen.
“Probably washed out”, she said.
She looked for the recipient’s name and address. Only two letters were visible.
“P – A.”
She paused for a moment to consider her position.
Her name did not contain the letters “P” and “A”; nor did she live in the state of Pennsylvania, for which, she knew, the letters “P” and “A” might be an abbreviation. So the package clearly was not meant for her. On the other hand, with so little information to work with, it was unlikely that the post office would be able to locate the correct person. Added to this was the fact that the deliveryman had given her the package, and as a single woman with no family, it was rare enough that she received anything in the mail.
She made up her mind: she would open the package.
“If I don’t like it”, she reasoned, “I can always give it away to charity – or sell it, if it’s valuable.”
Her fingernails dug under the edge of the packing tape. As soon as she had raised enough to grip, she pulled.
A sudden rush of air threw her flat on her back. The windows of her apartment shattered, and she had just enough time to hear herself scream before she fainted.
When she came-to, the opened package was still before her, looking perfectly ordinary.
Slowly and carefully, she sat up. She moved closer.
She stuck her head over the box, and looked down.
Inside, there was a small billing receipt – and nothing else. She read the name at the top of the receipt.
PANDORA.
“Oh dear”, she gasped. “That’s not good.”


- - -
Sean Scully is currently completing an MA Writing degree. His style has been described as Baroque, but he refuses to fix it.