Burnt Toast

Short story exercise, week ONE. Prompt: Accidentally. I wanted to start with a trivial act and turn it into some sort of melodramatic scene.

I awakened to a flood of bells filling my ears. I knew that sound too well for it to be anything other than the smoke alarm. I must have dozed off for a couple of seconds, not much longer. But with that sound, that awful dreaded sound, I knew what came next. It was hard to decide what was worse, the beacon of sound smashing against my skull, delivering a deafening blow or the heavy thuds I heard from above. I feared them both.

I ran to the kitchen, opening the door to a cloud of black and white swirling in on each other as it danced around the kitchen. My vision was blurred and my eyes were crying, they could feel the weakness in me, they cried for the smoke and they cried for me. I opened all the windows and doors hoping the cloud would be my nine and vanish through the escape route I had so desperately provided, but instead it lingered and laughed as it waited for my misfortune.

The thuds became louder; the door over head was slammed. I clung to the tea-towel waving it about frantically to stop the bells, to stop that ugly little man from pulling those ropes. The smoke never made its way upstairs, it always hung about in the kitchen teasing me with the possibility. It was always the bells that gave me away.

‘Just close your eyes, everything will be alright,’ I told myself. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’ I repeated over and over.

Thud, thud, thud came the rage. I panicked not knowing what to do next, paralysed by fear, tormented by memories. I could hear my mother’s voice ‘Don’t you fret my dear' she would say, ‘run, run, run away’.
I turned to run but instead collided with a wall. It grabbed my arm like a vice. Still deafened by the piercing ring of the bells I could only make out a mountain of abuse that encumbered me, rendering me incapable of movement.

He shoved me to the counter, pushing my face towards the source of all of today’s problems.
‘Smell it!’ he bellowed. ‘Fucking smell it! That burnt and bitter smell sums up this bloody marriage! Can you smell it?’ pushing my face closer.
He forced me over so that the back of my head was now against the counter surface. The only thought going through my head was one of being an observer to this scene.
‘Taste it! Open your fucking mouth,’ he wrenched it open with what felt like claws for fingers. He smashed the blackened bread down and it broke into honeycomb like pieces. I could hear what sounded like gravel being walked across as he crushed the combs into smaller pieces with his fist. As he stuffed them into my mouth I tried to swallow  quickly and think of honey so as not to taste it, but the crumbs acted like a sponge and my mouth became dry, the metallic taste took over as I gagged.

‘Catch the crumbs my little toaster. You’ll learn one day,’ he taunted.