The Gift of Choice

A small brown box sits on my front porch, conspicuous in its conservative covering; a speck of dismal dust before a polished pearl. No name or address adorns its face, forcing me to question its intended recipient.

Curiosity compels me to scoop it up and carry it inside, balancing books and the bags hanging from my fishhook fingers, cutting into the seams of my bloodless joints. Everything is eventually put in its proper place inside, with the parcel placed on the silvery-gray surface of my teakwood table.

I locate scissors in a disheveled drawer and take a seat at the table. Pulling the package to me, I examine it further. The plain paper is folded fastidiously, creating precise corners and strict seams. A length of jute wraps around the package on one meridian and then turns to run perpendicular to it on the other; a thick thread providing secondary support.

The scissors snip the jute, and I discard it. Tearing off the paper, I reveal a regal box made from luxurious lumber. The lid is stamped with a seal comprising a veiled viper head and an adorned dagger. Underlying the snakehead and knife is the letter “Z”.

Double-checking the wrapping for a letter, a missive, a message, any included information as to the origins of the box, I find none. I lift the lacquered lid and peer inside. The interior is trisected by a T-shaped partition.

Each compartment contains an objet d’art, obscure in its intended use — at least to me at the moment. From left to right, top to bottom, there is a small vial of viscous fluid, a pink perforated pill, and a hefty sterile syringe and needle. It seems certain thematic elements were envisioned by the sender.

Extracting the artifacts, I lay them next to me on the tabletop. I flip the box and find no clues beneath. The door falls open, dislodging the partition. The weak balsa wood shatters and splinters on the tiled surface of the floor.

Rotating the container carefully, I search for obfuscated openings or surreptitious splits in the joints and grooves. Eventually, I find a separated stitch in the liminal lining, and I pinch and pull it free.

There’s a door on the floor of the box, and I pry it open with a fingernail. A slender serpent lashes out from the concealed compartment and fastens its fangs into my flesh. I yelp and yank my hand free, slinging the snake across the room.

Droplets of blood bead on my punctured skin, and it burns and swells. I feel the venom spread up my arm, and I begin to panic.

The vial, the syringe, and the pill. Are they the trinity of triumph over death or an unholy triumvirate of anguish and annihilation? Maybe they’re red herrings meant to distract and delay — preventing me from seeking proper medical assistance.

My hand and entire forearm are now red and puffy. My heart is running hurdles, and my sweat glands are producing profuse amounts of perspiration. My respiration slows to the point of near cessation, and I gasp and grope to intake adequate air.

I fumble for the vial and syringe, grasping them in my sweaty, shaking hands. Shots, injections, I hate them. Dying unnecessarily terrifies me even more — and I’ve already endured two punctures today from the fangs. When I flip the vial over to insert the needle, I realize there are no units of measurement or instructions on either the bottle or syringe. The pill is also devoid of any detectable markings.

Venom continues to violate my body, and immediate action is now paramount. I fill the syringe to approximately two-thirds full, and I sit at the table, resting my affected arm on its surface. I inject the speculative serum into a plump, prominent vein and begin the wait, hoping for rapid relief.

An idea pops up in my head, a remembrance of a nature show, perhaps. Finding a permanent marker, I lay a line across my arm at the confluence of puffy redness and on par paleness.

I mark the time the line was created and attempt to acclimate myself to a state of uncertain but unflappable calm. If the serum works, slowing the spread of venom will only help.

Ten minutes later, I’m facing a new reality; the line has been breached. I convince myself to wait five more minutes.

The minutes begin to feel like hours, and my patience has expired. The pill was placed in the box for a reason, so I maneuver my mouth under the kitchen faucet, pop the pill, and drink it down.

The venom’s killer crusade has not been thwarted by the injection, but it seems the pill is delivering relief from a different direction.

My body begins to feel heavy, as if I’m submerged in a bog. In slow motion, I return to my chair, arms and legs swimming in thick invisible muck.

Sitting like a lump in the chair, my head grows heavy, and I’m unable to hold it upright any longer. A loud bang startles me awake, and my forehead feels like it’s been struck with a two-by-four.

Seriously slumping now, I slip to the floor, pushing the chair away with my back as my body goes prone.

Breath slowing... Heart rate weak... No tunnel, no light...

“They found him five days later.”

“Yeah, crazy shit. Why didn’t he call 911 or a neighbor or something?”

“You didn’t hear about what was happening in his domicile? He had some heavy shit hidden all over the place.”

“What kind of shit? Was he dealing? Stolen shit?”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Let’s refrain from repeating rumors; be professional. Just leave the cart there.”

“You’ve already done the tox screen, correct, Doc?”

“That’s correct, Detective—no illicit substances in his system. However, the appropriate antivenin was found — the snake was discovered still at the site — and the remnants indicated the potency was enough to do the trick.

Inexplicably, a fatal dose of an extremely rare and rapidly destructive poison was also detected. We swabbed the syringe, and that wasn’t the source of the poison.”