What a fine powder.
The tiny flecs seem to tumble reluctantly out of the vial as they collapse onto the pool of white sugar already occupying the sifter. The kitchen is quiet, and aside from the master of the home, the house is empty. For a moment I allow myself to become entranced by the stillness of the room. The steady flow of arsenic powder drifting into the sugar lulls me… my mind wanders...
""" I wonder if this is what motherhood feels like.
Mesmerized by the rhythm of my own hands as I fold fresh cream into the eggs. The dawn illuminating the kitchen as light yawns in through the overhead windows reflecting off each sullen surface. The sound of running water churning in the periphery of my thoughts. I probably forgot to turn off the tap in my own uncoordinated rush to prepare breakfast for the children, but I am unable to address that in this moment. In this moment all that exists is the task that I am dutifully carrying out; collateral incidents with little impact on the outcome of my mission bears little weight. """
The whistle of the kettle eases to the forefront of my imagination and pulls me to the other end of the kitchen, facing the cabinet. Instinctively, I open the cabinet and survey the contents of the cupboard in search of the teacup that seems to have been appreciated the most, then pour in the freshly sifted sugar, milk, the hot water into the french press and the coffee into the teacup.
This routine has long since lost any sense nuance, and as I exit the kitchen and make my way up the curved staircase the warmth in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee causes my thoughts to drift again.
""" I dream of ascending the stairs of my own home driven to wake the children and get them ready for school. The sensation of a warm mug of coffee allowing me to escape further into my dremscape. I can smell sweet butter melting on toast and feel the crumbs between my fingers from a few preemptive bites. The house is small but in it I feel fulfilled. I feel content.
I stand in front of the door to my son's bedroom eager to open it and see a smirk hiding just under closed lids and fair brown skin, as he tries to lie perfectly still and fool his mother into believing he's still fast asleep""" -but as I turn the knob and press forward what I see is an expectant stare pasted upon a round face situated upon a similarly round male frame in a grand king-size bed..
I greet the master of the home. He responds with a nod and I approach the bed extending the dish that the cup of coffee rests on. My gloved hands seem to spark a light of curiosity, visible in his expression but, what I assume to be apathy, overtakes any inkling to question _ . "Thank you." He says.
"This is what I do best." I return.
"If you'll be here for the next two days I sure hope you do!" He chuckles as he sips some of the coffee. I retreat from the bedside and begin to move towards the dresser leaning against the wall directly across the foot of the bed. The glint of light bouncing off the silvery-varnished frame on the dresser pulls me towards a distinct photo of the master and what appears to be the woman that I met earlier this morning just much younger. They must have been married for as long as I've been alive. Light reflects off of the frame almost as if I was fated to see it.
For the slightest moment I begin to indulge, daydreaming about having windows as welcoming to the suns rays as the ones in this home, the laughter of children, my own children, echoing in the quaint halls, but I catch myself. Precision is of the utmost importance. There's no time for that now.
I collect the frame, start towards a brown leather bag resting in the closet, and begin removing my frock (Why is this chick wearing a frock? What time period is this? She really could just begin loosening her jeans buckle, but this is the story that I saw played out in my brain so this is the story that must be told..until I get something better.) I can hear the wet, phlegmy grunt of the master beginning a coughing fit, but that probably isn't the arsenic at work. The master begins to groan and- as I've replaced my ...frock with a satin burgundy dress I make the mistake of glancing at his helpless figure lying in the bed. Dark blotches spread on the surface of his skin like watercolor on a wet canvas (This paragraph isn't finished. I just jotted down some notes and stopped.)
END.
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Summary:
Our main character (MC) prepares to kill the master of the home she is currently in. Neither her motivations or her profession are made clear. What is clear is that MC is at least mediocre at her job but does not find joy in it. It seems that the one desire she has is to be a mother as we, as the audience, are given insight into the thoughts that distract her attention. Below is an account of the events that should have transpired:
MC is in in the kitchen preparing the final coffee that the master of the house will have. As MC add's arsenic to the coffee MC is distracted by the thought of preparing breakfast for children of her own instead of an arsenic-laced final drink. Once the coffee is finished MC ascends the stairs to deliver the coffee to the master of the home. Once again, MC becomes distracted considering the life of motherhood she wishes she could lead. MC dreams of waking her children, but as MC opens to the door to her kid's room in her daydream, MC opens the door of the master of the home in real life. A disappointed MC delivers the teacup with gloved hands, exchanges some reassuring words to the master, and changes her clothes, and as he convulses and dies . MC places the picture of the wife near his now dead body...