All out
by ceci
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
She stands in the kitchen, legs like lead, anchored to the ground. The sting of bleach from the last clean-up lingers around her nose, mixed with the taste of rotten flesh. Her teeth hurt, and her bones feel fragile. A constant shiver runs through her skin as if fever controls her. It clouds her mind, and she can’t make it stop.
The fridge and pantry mainly have ingredients, a tactic to maintain a balanced life. Fruits on the bottom shelf are going moldy, and some veggies ooze yellow juice from inside plastic bags near Tupperware containers half-filled with leftovers from a week of meals.
What a week.
She hears a rumble, an ancestral sound that at this point knows no difference between hunger and completion. The sensation is odd, acid at the bottom of her throat contradicting the hollow space below her sternum. Her reflection stares from the window, an empty look in her eyes, mouth contorted into a frown. She’s hungry again.
One by one, mismatched leftovers are assembled on a plate. Sticky overcooked vegetables with meat coated in a yellow plaque of solidified fat. Some pasta, which has soaked up the rest of the sauce. A hard-boiled egg from a successfully avoided breakfast two days ago. It all gets heated up in a minute, while she pours herself a glass of stale Coke and munches on some nuts from the cupboard.
She sits alone by the empty table, nothing but a dishcloth beneath the plate. Steam rises from the veggies while the fat from the meat isn’t fully rendered. Impatient, she takes the first bite, unable to taste anything with her burning tongue. She gulps down the icy drink to relieve the burn, swallowing air along with the makeshift soup inside her mouth. Fat sticks on her lips from the bite of cold meat that is way too big. Dry noodles and more Coke. The plate is empty in a few minutes. A belch lodges in her chest as she forces herself to swallow the last bits of salt, thoughts of dessert already forming in her head.
No candy in the household, but a concoction of artificial sweeteners might do the trick. A monstrous goo made of yoghurt and powders that promise a healthy image. Expired sugar sprinkles shoved in the back of the pantry topped by a sticky hardened caramel sauce from the latest ice cream spree. Though she feels full, the change in flavor profile is most welcome as she fills her mouth with spoonfuls of the sweet-treat.
Her reflection stares back at her, cheeks swollen as if she’s holding in air. Chocolate sauce drips from the tip of her chin. Her eyes look mad, and her mouth falls into a shape of desperation as she comes back to reality. No more than ten minutes have passed, yet she stares at a sink filled with empty containers and dirty spoons as if it’s the end of a whole day of cooking. A big knife draws her attention from the drying rack, a different temptation to solve a problem she has never been able to escape.
She leaves the bowl abandoned on the counter, melted sugar sprinkles a messy pool of colors. Sweat runs down her temples as she picks up the knife, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. The kitchen feels stuffy with the smells of everything she heated up. Maybe fresh air from the fridge will be a relief, She opens the heavy door and sits down on the ground in the cold space. From where she sits, her reflection can no longer stare. She rests her head by the bottom shelf, hair spreading over the plastic, blade in hands.
In a slow, pained motion, she flips over the knife in her hands. With a deep breath, she shoves the blade into her stomach, right where the pit never seems to fill. The sharp sting is like a magnified cramp, twisting her full stomach into a knot, but physical discomfort feels like home, and the coming of the end tastes of relief. Her breathing quickens as blood and other fluids spill from the wound. Metallic and acid smells fill the air. A small bubble of spit forms at the corner of her mouth as her breathing slows.
Her heart takes more time to stop than she took to eat her final meal. Putrid air overtakes the kitchen. The beep of the open fridge door echoes off the tiled walls. Her head falls at a crooked angle, eyes pointed in the direction of the moldy fruit, her own yellow secretion mixed with the ones pooled into the bottom of the veggie drawer.