by Roppotucha Greenberg
She takes my death out of the oven, wraps it in a clean towel, and smiles.
“Drink your tea,” she says, “let it rest a bit.”
The thing in the towel and I rest a little bit. I came because therapy feels like drowning.
The mug laughs at me as I drink. This feels good.
“I am worried all the time,” I say; “and I am so tired I am not sure if I need to look for comfort in sleep or pray for great wisdom.”
The thing in the towel feels warm. “Open it,” she says. It’s all black and smells of charcoal with a whiff of brimstone and caraway seeds. I want to swallow it whole.
She beams with pride: “Didn’t it come out nice? And it’s all yours.”
“My actual death?”
The electric light in the kitchen gets thicker; my death is squeezing the photons.
“Here. Have a slice.”
I was right about the molasses, and there is a taste of an old garden with a small well which might be prunes.
“Thank you,” I say. “It helps.” And it does, with every bite: I stop feeling guilty for existing. Instead I think: maybe other people are people with stories of their own, my elephantine worries about them notwithstanding: maybe my thoughts don’t kill.
“That’s enough!”
She wraps it up hurriedly and looks at me as if she can hear me roar: “more, more, give me more sweet death,” which is not the case at all. I can behave. I am a grown-up.
Before I go, I pull out a small silver coin. Her face lights up; her small sharp teeth crunch on the metal.
“Thank you. Now don’t bother with shortcuts, just follow the tram tracks.” She opens the trap-door in the ceiling, I stand on a chair and crawl through layers of earth out through a manhole and into my city. It’s rush hour and windy. Black ice covers the road. Let the memory of my death, tasty and rich, keep me safe until I get home.
Roppotucha’s microfiction can be found on Twitter @Roppotucha. Longer pieces are on Amazon. She is a recent Adhoc Fiction winner.