Sun

The sun has no business shining so brightly. Not now. Not today.

Chewing the inside of your lip until your mouth floods with the sharp tang of blood, you turn away from the window and tug the heavy curtains back into place, cutting off the pale morning light and shrouding the room in darkness once more. Each step across the floor feels practiced and carefully chosen, and yet you plod. Your bones are like lead, your skin stone. An effigy come to life, pulled free of its tomb to walk the earth among the mortals.

In the safety of the darkness, you walk across the room, arms outstretched to feel for sporadic furniture and pillars of priceless art. The wood is polished and smooth under your fingers; the marble cool and impersonal.

When your hand grazes the engraved doorknob, you hesitate, hearing muffled voices down, down through layers of wood and brick and stone. Your next breath is heavy, rattling, as if through a skeleton’s loose ribs. It will take courage to leave the dark. Courage you don’t think you have.

It would all be so easy if only you could blow out the sun.

Frying pan

image from q13fox.com
image from q13fox.com

Pop! With a burst of fat, the bacon sizzles in the pan and the house fills with the mouth-watering aroma of frying pig meat. A sting burns your arm, and you glance down to see a red spot forming, but you barely feel the pain. Moving mechanically, you push the bacon with the fork, scraping the tines across the bottom of the no-stick-but-you-totally-have-to-use-Pam-otherwise-it’ll-stick pan.

Another bubble of fat pops and sprays your arm. You sigh.

With a yawn and scuffle of feet, he walks in. His hand grazes your bottom through the thin satin pyjamas; just like with the fat, you barely feel it. It is not lecherous, though you don’t doubt that his intent is. To you, it is little more than an irritating flutter, like a moth circling a flame.

“You’re making breakfast for me?” he says, laughter in his voice. He rounds past you and peers at the stove. “Jesus Christ, you burned the bacon again. You can’t even cook fucking bacon?

You look up at him and it is as if you are seeing him for the very first time. Seeing clearly, like the fog lifting off the bay on a late fall morning.

Looking him in the eye, you say, “Get bent, Steve,” and smash the frying pan into the side of his head, sending the contents spraying across the room.

With a happy sigh drowned out by his screams, you turn, pick up your mug of steaming coffee, and go to sit on the porch.


This week’s prompt, frying pan, ended up being a multipart story completely by crazy random happenstance! Read the next part in the saga of the narrator and Steve here!