Devil's Food Cake [✓]

19 | guilt

I'd always hated hospitals. Instead of there sterile environment feeling safe and reassuring, they reminded me death and long waiting rooms. Luckily, we hadn't visited one for a while, not since I was ten and I'd broken my arm falling off a tree. My mother had been worried sick, and had made me promise to never do anything as reckless as climbing a tree again. I don't remember what my reason for climbing up the tree was, but I think a friend's annoying snotty faced brother Albie dared me to.

Albie was always trying to wind girls up; I think that was his misguided way of trying to drive away his younger sister's friends. The reason why I mention Albie is that in some ways Zachary reminded me of him.

Like Albie, Zachary liked to spoil my fun by knocking over my tea set and causing havoc. He didn't really care about the consequences. You know that person who says the most inappropriate things at the most inopportune times, well, that was Zachary all over. He didn't possess a smidgen of discretion; I guess it helped that he was raised in a position of privilege and wealth.

His father was one of the richest men in the world. A family business worth billions compared to my dad's no less impressive, but modest enterprise. I couldn't believe that someone like him even visited artisan bakeries in his spare time.

And neither could Dorothy it appeared. Dorothy was walking down the street, bobbing her head to her ipod when she saw my father and myself talking to the paramedics. Her strawberry doughnut fell splat onto the pavement as she took in the scene of Zachary being wheeled into the ambulance. She had a mildly curious look on her face as she jostled amongst the crowd gathered outside, her bony elbows knocking people aside, ignoring glares directed her way, to see Zachary being given treatment. Dorothy's normally cool, blasé attitude disappeared and her eyes widened in shock. I could see the question marks hovering above her head.

The paramedics had praised my father's quick thinking. With a humble smile, my father had muttered that it would have been what anyone would have done. Being a nicer person than me, he'd decided to drive to the hospital. I would have gone with him, but I'd already given him a item of food that had given him anaphylaxis, for god's sake. Frustrating as he was, there was a chance Zachary could die in the hospital - I didn't want to jinx it. I'd already wish something awful on him before. I just couldn't face it.

He could sue us and I wouldn't blame him. I was a terrible person, wishing ill on someone, even if I had been semi-joking. I was still thinking about my fatal mistake in being so absentminded with the cards. The way his skin had turned a startling shade of pink as if he had no control over his body. Unconscious, Zachary had looked so vulnerable and helpless. My whole body had jitters spreading over my skin, a thousand little pins of guilt digging into me, making all my positivity dissipate and allowing all the negative thoughts to escape from a Pandora's box and spread through me.

Dorothy ambled alongside me as I headed back inside the shop with the rest of the customers. Despite my mishap, they were a faithful (or ravenous) lot. My dad didn't have to worry about these customers being put off by what they'd witnessed. If anything, it seemed to have created quite a stir. People were sharing stories as thought seeing a guy suffering from anaphylaxis had lived up their day. You know how London is usually known as one of the unfriendliest places in the world - eye contact in public places as an anathema to most. Well, near death emergency situations, even if it doesn't directly affect you, make people lose their usual reticence and start conversing with whichever stranger is near them.

A few customers sitting by a table, directly in the huddle of people was a black guy and Liverpudlian woman leading the conversation. When they saw me, a few gave me smiles and I felt even worse because I probably deserved hisses of retribution instead.

'Wow, I am super annoyed that I didn't accept the morning shift now,' Dorothy was saying. Her lips shaped into a cunning smile - a gossip-hungry one. 'What the hell happened with the rich hottie? Let's be best friends.' She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, as though she didn't have an extreme antipathy to touch.

I stared at her like she had just pulled a dove from a her floral beanie hat.

'Too desperate?' Dorothy withdrew her hand away as though she'd just remembered she was violating her no-touching rule.

I sighed. 'Anaphylaxis. He ate a cupcake which caused a severe allergy.'

'Who gave him the killer cupcake? You or Jer?' Before I could even respond, I could see her mind riffling through the 'crime scene' as though she was a detective. She pointed at the plate, a few small samples leftover. 'Is this it?' Dorothy even went so far as to taste one. 'Banana and sesame. Damn. I've been telling you to change the recipe—'

'Dorothy!' I snapped. 'Shut up. This is serious. Why are you being so insensitive?'

As though she had been watching too many Columbo episodes, Dorothy started to unbutton her jacket, tilting her head to one side, her mouth set in a 'don't-give-a-shit' way. 'Well what do you know? Candy isn't Little Miss Perfect, after all. You forgot to add the label, didn't you? Or was it part of your secret plan, after all...'

Covering my mouth from saying something I'd regret, I dashed past her to the kitchen, so I could stop myself from crying in front of everyone.

'Too bad,' I heard the suppressed laughter in Dorothy's voice, 'he was very good-looking.'

Dorothy was a such an emotionless, callous bitch! I slammed the door, tears were crashing down my face, as I started to add ingredients in a bowl. Whenever I felt awful, I would always make chocolate chip scones to make me feel better.

I needed a distraction; I just couldn't stomach the fact that I might have killed someone.

When my father called us about two hours later, Dorothy sidled into the kitchen. I was slumped over the worktop, a thousand tissues littering the table like resting ghosts.

She sat down beside me. 'You can stop crying. Jer just called.'

'What did Dad say? How is Zachary?' My head shot up and I winced in pain as I realised that I'd made the movement to fast, because there was a strain. Rubbing my hand against the back of my neck to lessen the pain, I watched Dorothy for any signs of good news.

'You're not a killer. Richie Rich is fine. He's going to stay at the hospital for observation. Jer was saying all this medical terminology, but yeah, Richie lives to flirt another day,' she said flatly, although there was a smile playing on her lips.

Job done, Dorothy started to head towards the door, but she didn't get a chance to make her escape quick enough.

'Oh thank god!' I jumped up from my stool and enveloped Dorothy in a hug much to her protests. 'Dorothy, you have a sick sense of humour but at least you're straight with me. Oh thank you, thank you—'

'Calm down, girl.' Dorothy's body was stiff for a moment, before she realised that it would be over quicker if she shared in my relief. 'So, are you gonna visit him this evening. Your dad says he's been asking after you. I could go if you want.'

With a smile, I patted her shoulder. 'Nah, I should probably go and apologise.'

'You do that.' Dorothy put some space between us, probably relieved that she wouldn't have to see any more of me today. But nothing could dampen my happiness in that moment. It was like someone had given me second chance to be a better person.

Of course, my happiness evaporated into a puddle in the hospital when I realised how scared and guilty I was to face Zachary's after that morning's unfortunate events. Pushing aside the urge to run out of the hospital, I knocked on the unfamiliar door, and tried to push aside imaginings of worse case scenarios multiplying in my head like a gorgon of nerves.

It was time to take responsibility for my actions.