Bakers Touch

Smoke

Chapter 1

The wafting scent of burning, smoldering bread danced its way through the air enveloping the house. The cloud heavily invaded Morgan's nostrils. The alarming odor seeps beneath her bedroom door and stirs her to an urgent jolt, from her delicate dream. Confused out of her slumber, Morgan shouts herself awake. Her feet struggle to make sense of the floor as she flails her hands onto the doorknob. Swinging the door open so wildly that her light wands tumbled from their altars on the shelf to the shaggy carpet below. She launched herself through the door, her feet thundering down the hall as she grabbed the stair railing to brace herself.

"What's happening!? Is everyone okay!?"

The urgency reverb off the walls as no one responds to her inquiry. The smoke alarm gets louder and louder as she clears the second floor, the cold tile on the main level adding more stress, contributing to the alert. She nearly trips over her little brother's firetruck as she crosses into the dining room.

She bullies past the impact and brushes off the pain, her adrenaline begins to taper as she realizes that the kitchen, living room, and all the other rooms within the house, are empty. Morgan is alone. She is the only one home, and the toaster is unattended.

This isn't the first time. The revelation sinks in as Morgan groans in annoyance once she realizes, this is the third time. She dares not linger on the fact that she was alone this time, though. She immediately unplugs the toaster from the wall and, in a silent rage, opens the window over the sink to allow the smoke to egress. She then drags the toaster by its cord to the outside garbage can, and with a loud, infuriated grunt chucks it as hard as she can into the bin. She took a few breaths to collect herself and grabbed the water hose off the wall to drench the bin, all the while still in her robe, black t-shirt, and sleeping shorts. She stares soullessly at the bin and points to the nozzle, squeezing the trigger with all her might while the water streams into the bin. Her hair was still a mess, and she couldn't care less about who did it this time, it's not like she would get an honest answer anyway.

Morgan scans her surroundings and notices that the other houses' bins are on the curb, at least it's trash day. She's certain that The Banshee is going to give her a dressing down for this, but it doesn't matter. Morgan is becoming numb to the screaming, hen-pecking, and micromanaging. Morgan's only goal is to survive. Her only focus is that she's making it from day to day, and though unhealthy, she makes that her only goal because any other tasks are simply too much for her to handle. Or at least, that's how she felt before this morning.

After flipping off the toaster while the waste management crew hauled it away, Morgan returned inside, and once there, she began to assess the mess that her family had yet again left behind. Dishes, sweeping, mopping, dusting, throwing out expired foods. Putting away the toys, and completing the laundry. All the house chores are hers to complete. It's been this way since she was young, and though Morgan has longed for a sense of control over her life, the thought was forcibly abandoned. The idea of something new and different only ends in disaster, and coveting such a thought would only devastate her further.

Morgan meticulously stages the house, fluffing the couch pillows, drawing back the curtains, and even goes the extra mile by washing all the sheets and re-making all the beds. She manages to find an extra pocket of time, and even though she could use it for herself, she decides instead to straighten Peter's room. Maybe there was a point to all of this nonsensical cleaning and meticulous organization. Could there just once be a day when her efforts were not so harshly criticized? Alas, she doesn't hold out hope for leniency, The Banshee doesn't do leniency.

After a quick shower and a bottle of water, Morgan gets dressed for the academy and ties her hair back in a green satin ribbon. Her vanity mirror is covered in childhood photos of her and her father when she was a toddler. She lights her incense, says her mantra, and gives her dad a wave goodbye. Sliding her headphones on over her ears, Morgan grabs her lanyard and billfold from the ornate peacock bowl on the shelf by the door at the bottom of the stairs. And locks up the house.

She zipped out of the front door, quickly shutting the door behind her. After flinging herself off the front porch over the hedge, and down the front hill. Hopping off the bearing wall and onto the sidewalk. Turning her back to this hellhole every day couldn't come soon enough for Morgan. Her journey consisted of a bus ride to the nearest transfer station and a two-hour tram ride. After changing rail lines, the ride is followed by a generous walk across The Exchange parking lot, to a palace-looking building with windows that reflect on every side. That building was Morgans College. Initially, she was only supposed to go to an open house when she was in middle school, but ever since her father took her on that tour, she never could think of anything else. All she wanted was to be a culinary artist, just like him.

Her thumb mindlessly scrolled through her playlist until she found the one song that suited her mood for the day, and initiated her dissociative trance. Now in her unofficial third year, the stakes couldn't be any higher for Morgan. Especially since she's living back at home. It's financially taxing living alone these days, and she tried living alone a few times, but after failing a third time, she succumbed to the only option she had left. The prison. The incarceration institution with no fences, no gun towers, no guards, or razor wires. The Banshee, Rebecca's House.

It's difficult to want something for yourself when the weight of others' lives also depends on you. Morgan had often asked herself why bear the weight of such a life, but it only yielded pain. Morgan can't bear any more pain. All she desired was to keep on this upward movement of self-preservation. She hadn't made the progress she would have liked to -granted the whole living with mom again situation- but she's finally learned to say 'No' in the recent months, and started giving herself time to rest. But can one call it to rest when she's still thinking of the next days' tasks and errands?

"Just get it over with."

Morgan pressed play

The rail car lurched forward.

She taunted the bittersweet taste of permanent rest, but no such way out would come to her. Not longing intensely for death, yet longing enough to not be opposed to falling victim to some random freak accident. Morgan withheld that sacred Shikon jewel deep within her. Praying that it would reinforce her soul and become an ironclad covenant, that she could carry with her to the next life, if such a thing existed.

The banshee was a cotton swab and her love was acetone. Distinct in odor, cold to the touch, and rubbing off on the hands of others, promptly eliminating any trace of polish or personality of an individual, leaving behind a dry, blank canvas to paint on.

Morgan already knew the cost of all that was riding on her finishing school this time around. Having her education meant that she would have a way out. She would be free on all fronts mentally, emotionally, and more importantly Financially. It is easy to run or even tell someone to run. Morgan has learned all too well that no matter who you are, no matter what your background, foreground, or bloodline, you can't run without resources.

With a combined education and acquired resources, her dreams to have her place and open her own business, her and her brother's freedom might finally be a tangible thing for her. With her birthday approaching, -yet another tick on the clock-she can't afford to waste any more time or make any more foolish decisions. Sure, she can't plan for exactly everything in life but perhaps, if she worked hard enough at trying to make something stable for Peter. The winds of destiny could blow in her favor and send her sailing to a new place. She's solely depending on her hard and honest work to launch her into life again. To finally have the wind of a perfectly executed glide whispering through her hair.

She officially wanted out of the yo-yo of financial and shelter dependence with The Banshee. She wanted true control over her life, or at least enough stability to sleep with her back to the bedroom door for once in her life. This cycle can't go on like this, doing the same things, something had to change, even if she had to go toe to toe and stand karmic trial, she wouldn't buckle, not this time.

This time, It has to pay off. Come hellfire or bullet fire.