the darkest human psychologies

pie

The smell is sweet, an odoriferous concerto of burnt sugar and overcooked apples. Her skin is pale. She has no need for the makeup she so desperately slathers onto her face every day as to chase away imperfections that nobody else sees. Somehow like a worm I wriggled my way into her life under the guise of the sweet politically correct gentleman who was crippled by his anxiety. I watch closely as her bare feet pad across the kitchen floor as she opens the closed oven to retrieve the origin of the disgustingly sweet aroma; a hideously burnt apple pie that she expects me to eat and enjoy. My tastebuds almost commit suicide at the thought of being forced near the slice she hands me.

I use the cheap avocado spoon she gave me to take the first bite. I reassure myself that her strange choice of cutlery can be attributed to the large stack of unwashed unrinsed dishes donning the sink, perhaps due to the fact that she lives alone. I smile through my disgust and nod when she asks me if I enjoy her cooking, cringing at the horrid assault on my senses when her back is turned. I want to earn her trust, and the best way to do so is to lie to her face. It's a strange predicament we find ourselves in, two strangers, never having met, eating burnt pie in her kitchen. I ask myself how I got here. Well, I suppose I just walked, arriving at her home in the rain as if I needed her. She, of course played the Good Samaritan in my scripted play, letting me in, drying me off, and allowing me to paint my new face on. She has no name, she doesn't need one, and she's not a main character in this story, just a chapter. People like me should not be allowed to write stories like this, not be allowed to use my hands to control the lives of beings and have them dance around to my amusement.

I look back at her; her face is fixed on a corner. I really should look into her, I should dwell into what her name is, I should give her a story, but I don't want to, I want to just be. I'm doing this because I'm bored and I need a way to distract the deep loathing welling up inside me for the peers around me in the real world. Nobody can stop me here, nobody knows me here, and I could be anybody. I stand, and inhale slowly 'I can be anyone' my monologue reminds me. I walk up behind the young woman, running my hands over her sides and exhaling in her ear. She goes stiff under my hands; I love the way her smooth skin moves under my fingers. My right hand slowly slides up her back and grips her long hair, before it forcefully and suddenly forces her face into the steaming burning hot food she tried to feed me. She moves around, she's reminding me of a flopping fish as she struggles to tear her burnt head out of the pie so she can breathe. It isn't the heat that eventually ends her life; it's the lack of oxygen. I watch, my face blank as she stops moving and my weak upper body strength gives in and I drop the new corpse to the dirty floor.

I throw the pie out, hissing in slow disgust at the foul thing. How can someone be such a terrible cook? How can someone have such awful tastes? She must have tried to burn it. I look to the corpse and with great difficulty I flip her dead weight over so she's half laying half sitting against the kitchen cabinets. She has apple and dark burnt cream all over her face. She's really made a mess of herself. It's up her nose even. I sigh and grasp at the tea towel hanging on the oven door. It takes just a moment to move the dirty dishes aside, wetting the cloth and cleaning the pie and makeup off her face. She's a pretty thing; too bad she's just a hook in my story. I tisk at her and stand. I swiftly throw the towel down at her and swipe her umbrella as I leave. 'How's that for a hook?'