As Pandoro the young boy, I had assumed the Box would be filled with toys and hidden gifts.  Not so.  Frightening, mysterious characters swarmed around me, and I felt disoriented.  In a thought fragment, I wondered what a child would do in the situation so that I could behave in character, but there wasn't time for planning actions, everything was moving too rapidly. 

A character labeled Violence blurted her intentions in English, only I didn't understand what she had said.  Maybe she repeated her statements again in English, maybe she jumped directly into French, I really don't know.  Her facial expressions, inflection, and movements spoke to me and I knew to get out of her way.  The knowledge that stayed with me from our interaction:  I don't understand Violence.  I really don't.

In a similar manner, a wave of characters poured out of the box and presented themselves to Pandora and me.  I felt conflicted, frightened, awkward, and overwhelmed.  I looked to my sister, and saw the same confusion on Pandora's face.  I think we cried out for our mother (she did not respond).  I felt fragile, alone, and ashamed to face our Conscience.  I needed to save my sister; I felt like I was beyond saving.  With the sirens still screeching in my head, I knew that I needed to throw myself onto the Box.

Likely, Pandora and I walked two steps to the Box to mime its closure.  To experience the pendulum of my emotions, imagine this scene occurring in an Indiana Jones movie:  the Box looks like a treasure chest, only the treasure is death, and I am responsible for releasing this into the world. 

My impulse, once the Box was closed, was to run -- to lasso evil and return it to the box, maybe.  Or, maybe just to run.  The drama therapists whispered for us to "stay with it," and our focus returned to the Box and the characters that remained when the lid was closed:  these serene characters represented Hope.

In my memory, the room became still and quiet.  The two women playing Hope spoke softly to us, and we were drawn to their encouraging words and calm strength.  "What would you say to Hope?" I heard the drama therapists ask, and I know that Pandora spoke and the Hopes responded with support and promises to guide us on our journey.  I remember speaking to the Hope closest to me, and I heard her respond.  I do not remember her words;  I remember her eyes.

With her eyes, Hope spoke directly to my soul and communicated acceptance, forgiveness, and comfort.   She did not release my gaze because she knew that I was sinking beneath the weight of the unmistakable guilt in my chest:  All of this is my fault.  Unleashing evil, violence, pain.  My fault.  Anger, suffering, death.  My fault, every bit.

Children often feel responsible for events beyond their control, Dr. Bernhard Kempler had advised earlier in the week.  As Pandoro, I felt buried in darkness and suffocated by shame . . . until Hope reached my hand and guided me into the light.