Little Debbie

(Story I wrote for a competition that had a cap of 1000 words)

RD :: Suicidal Thoughts

By the time you find this-

No. Too cliché.

I just need you to know that I thought about it for a long time and it wasn't a decision I made carelessly.

That's better. I fold the letter and put it under my pillow even though the house is empty and there's no real reason to hide it. Dinner is on the counter, plated and wrapped. A sticky note: Love, Mom. I eat, alone, standing up. I leave the fork and plate in the sink for someone to find later, and I leave for school because I cannot be inside these walls one minute longer than I need to be.

---

Later that day, on the way back home, there is this peculiar boy. He's in the middle of the road. Not the sidewalk. The actual road. Dressed in all black, we’re walking the same direction, moving slowly like he has nowhere to be. I match his pace.

“That road was made for cars. This one is for people,” I call out.

He looks both ways. “You see any?”

Half a mile clear in each direction, I mean he's right, but still. He waves me over. I shouldn't, but I step off the curb anyway. It’s just asphalt, but it feels like I'm standing on the roof of a house.

“Why do you do this?”

“It makes me feel free, don’t you feel it?” He pulls out a pack of Zebra Cakes from his jacket. “Clears my mind too.” He offered me some.

“I'm not eating that.”

“You don't have to.” He unwraps it and takes a bite. “To be honest I don't even like it.” He chuckles.

“So why?”

“Nostalgia.”

Whatever that is supposed to mean, it works on me. I take the second half when he reoffers.

Ugh… it’s too sweet and the cream… is it synthetic? I try to eat the whole thing without tasting it.

That night I pull the letter out again. I need to finish this soon.

The hardest part isn't the decision, I want to do this. It's knowing I could be gone and the sink would notice first.

You know what… I decide to bake at midnight because I can't sleep and the kitchen is the only room that asks something of me. Besides, there is no way I am letting anyone else eat that stuff again.

Real butter, dark chocolate, same shape as a zebra cake, but different everything.

---

The next day he opens the box and goes quiet, not a regular quiet. A different kind. Maybe I’m waiting for something that isn’t there.

“You made this…”

“It's nothing” I say. My late grandmother taught me everything.

He takes a bite but doesn't perform his reaction. It just crosses his face, unguarded. “That's it,” he says. “That's the exact thing I was trying to…”

He pauses swallowing the first bite. “I’ve been...” he starts and stops.

“What?”

“Well...truth is I've been trying to taste my childhood apartment again. Four of us, one bedroom. My mom made everything last. I loved when she got us these 25c cakes. Back then I couldn't be alone even if I tried.” He stares at the box. “We have a house now. Six bedrooms.” He says, as if in mourning. “Now I can't find anyone. I guess I miss how close we were.”

We walk the long way back, which is good, because I need a minute to stop feeling so suddenly visible.

Later that night, just as I pull the letter out…

I did that today. I gave someone good food. No, it wasn’t about the cakes, was it.

I stare at the letter a long time before I write anything.

I've been waiting to feel like something in this life was mine. I don't know if I will ever make it past the waiting part. Maybe none of it matters.

I read it back. The words look true, but this time I hate that they do.

I tuck it back under the pillow.

---

On the third day we meet on that road again.

We walk in silence for a while, at first, and it's the only silence all week that hasn't felt like drowning. I surprise him with another pastry I baked just last night.

He says I will do something with my talent someday. The way he says it doesn’t seem like a suggestion, more like a fact he's already decided. I am not used to thinking this way. So sure of life.

He asks what I actually want and makes me promise to not give him the normal answer. So I think about it honestly for the first time in a long time. “A small bakery. Three pastries done right every day. I like the idea of making something that someone's been thinking about.”

I can't believe what I am hearing from myself.

“Oh, so you had it all figured out,” he says, as if realizing his pep talk was unnecessary.

Did I just … sound confident?

The walk ends just before my house and I think about his mother stretching a little into enough, the kitchen at midnight, and the feeling of feeding someone cannot be unwrapped and left in a sink.

---

When I get home I go straight to the desk. Pull the letter out. Read the whole thing slowly. It reads like it was written by someone I know. Not me. Not anymore.

I fold it and slip it in the drawer. Take out a new clean page.

Dear-

I don't know your name yet and that's okay. I want to tell you that a gas station Zebra Cake is responsible for something I can't fully explain. I think what I mean is… you helped me discover my hunger that I didn't know was there until now.

I'm going to open that bakery someday. I'll save you the first piece.

Thank you. I’m Amy by the way.

I tuck it into my bookbag’s front pocket.