The Golden Box

The dark-haired man sat across the chimney, gazing at the embers in the fireplace. How has time passed so quickly? he wondered. At the ripe age of eighty-two, he had survived the odds of living longer than his parents did.

Recently, his only living sister had been urging him to set up a will, something that he absolutely detested. "Now why would I do that? I have nothing to give away and nobody to receive anything." His sister simply shrugged and claimed that it was the traditional thing to do.

Even if his sister was somewhat reasonable for urging him to create a will, she didn't know what he knew. And if she did, only God could imagine the outcome...

"Oh Heavens, it's already two o'clock!" the old man exclaimed. He had been resting in his recliner since morning, preoccupied by the chaos that was bound to erupt. "Time to get to work," he heaved as he used all of his strength to push his frail, dying body out of the chair.

Despite not wanting a will, the man had decided he'd write one just to please his younger sister. She was pushy, and he was easily annoyed. But he would do it because she was–sadly–his sister.

Starting the will, though, was an issue.

He had no living relatives besides the sister, and he definitely didn't want to give his belongings to her. But wait! What if I...? the old man's youthful mind pondered off. He had conceived the perfect idea for a will.

My name is Jack Wharton. I am eighty-two as I write this, living alone. If you are reading this, I have died. Hopefully, I have died peacefully–in my bed, while I sleep. Although I do not have many belongings, I would like to leave what I do have behind to my only living relative–my sister Agatha Wharton. To her, I leave my most prized possession: a golden box. This box is one of a kind; nothing, I repeat nothing, even mirrors it. That being said, I trust her to treasure it dearly for it is my favorite item.

I wish you all the best,

Jack.

It was simple, but to the point.

Despite his arthritis, his writing was still legible, and he managed to sign his name the way he always did in the past. When he was younger and stronger, he was a doctor at a local hospital. He treated all types of patients, but mainly patients suffering from fatal illnesses and diseases.

On one rainy night, he met a patient named Tom. Tom was like the ordinary patient–kind, somewhat depressed, and obviously sick. But there was something about Tom that made him different: he always carried a golden box with him. No matter where he went, he insisted and pleaded with the nurses to bring it with him. 

It was a tiny box–one that could easily be put on a keychain. It actually wasn’t even made of gold, only faux gold, but nobody wanted to tell Tom that. He called it his “lucky golden box,” and when Dr. Wharton asked Tom what it did, Tom, big-eyed and whimsical, responded that it was a “magic box.”

Jack shook his head at the memory, clearly disturbed thinking about the young man. Tom, although only thirty years-old, died in his bed one night without the golden box near his side. Some new nurse took it from him as he slept, and according to the reports, his heart stopped beating a few minutes later. 

As he carefully rolled up the will, he looked down at his chest. On his neck, dangled a chain with the golden box. 

After Tom had died, Jack had wandered around the hospital rooms, searching for that golden box. Sure enough, a nurse had placed it in a cupboard in some unused room. Without letting anyone else know, he snatched the golden box and felt its exterior. There was a small latch that could be pulled, and once pulled, it revealed an opening. Jack’s fingers prodded the inside of the box before he saw the delicate engraving:

This is no ordinary box; it grants immortality to all who have it touching their body. If one shall move the box away from his or herself, he or she shall die. Choose wisely.

Jack, amused at the little warning, snuck the box into the pocket of his pants and carried on with his day. It wasn’t until he arrived home that he began to think that the consequences could be serious. No, it’s only a box, he had tried to remind himself.

Then, on one courageous night, he decided to remove the box from his pockets. He threw it on the floor and then slowly stepped away from it. At first, he felt perfectly fine, but the farther he got away from the golden box, the worse he felt. Eventually, he was on his knees, screaming in pain. Helpless, his only chance of living was returning to the box. So, from that day on, he decided to wear the box as a necklace. 

Although he aged, got sick, became weaker, he always managed to survive. The box may have rendered him immortal, but it also made him dependent. Jack never even thought about making a will, because he knew he’d never need one. 

But...on the occasion that he dies, perhaps it would be best to have a will? And why not hand the dreaded contraption he called a necklace to his worst enemy, his sister? Agatha was the worst thing to have ever been known to mankind. With her pompous attitude, terrible hygiene, and constant criticism of Jack, Jack would be more than glad to give her his golden box. 

After all, she, being the idiot she was, would just chuck that golden box into a river or the trashcan once she realized it wasn’t pure gold. Jack started chuckling at the thought of watching his poor sister fall on the ground, helpless and not in reach of the box. 

While it seemed like a genius plan, there was only one problem. Jack would have to die, in order to have Agatha receive the box. Then again, at eighty-two years old, Jack felt that he had seen enough of Earth’s “wonders” and could do better without them. 

So, within a few weeks, he had his will officialized and got ready to go to bed. Dressed in his scarlet red pajamas, he faced the grandfather clock that read 10:01 and then gazed at his necklace. Is this the right way to go? He wondered. Did he really want to give up immortality? 

Yes. Yes, I do, he told himself. With that being said, Jack unhooked the necklace and threw it all the way across his bedroom. Initially, he felt nothing. Then, the pain began. His knees started to buckle, and he started to lose his breath, so he forcefully propped himself in bed. 

After two minutes, Jack was dead.

One Week Later:

Agatha Wharton, unmarried and ugly as ever, stood before her mirror examining the golden box she had fashioned as a necklace. “Well, it’s not even real gold. I always knew my brother had nothing. Even as a doctor, he had no gems or beauties,” she scoffed.

In one motion, her hand flung the necklace off her head and across the room onto her dirty mattress. 

One minute later, Agatha Wharton was dead.