A Sweet Death

Finally, Saturday morning, I’m off from work, no stress, just relaxation. I can finally eat the chocolate cake my mom made me. I stashed it in the back of the fridge, hoping no one would find it. My mind has been on that cake for the past two days. I don’t care if it’s the morning; I want to sink my teeth into that delicious chocolate cake. My mom’s cakes were so good, the frosting so buttery and whipped. The cake is so soft and moist it melts right in your mouth with every bite. My mom’s cakes are so addicting. She always made me my own special cake. Every meal, she made a cake for my brothers and sisters and one for me all to myself. I was not too fond of sharing.

My Saturday started, as usual, only this day I'll be having cake for breakfast. I head to the bathroom to freshen up. I notice my roommates, Ashely, Jonathan, and Dimitri, are still asleep. They’re all cool. We became pretty close over the past seven months of living together.

I’m so excited it’s time to eat my cake. But first ill get some coffee made got to have some coffee with my chocolate cake. Just as I’m making my coffee, there’s a knock at the door. A package is here for Ashely. I’ll grab and set it by her door. “Phone rings” Hello? Hey, son, oh hey mom, how are you? I’m ok, did you get a chance to eat that cake? No, not yet, mom, I haven’t yet. Well, wait before you do, I have to tell you “Click” “Hello? Hello? That’s strange the phone disconnected. I go back to making my coffee. Grab my favorite mug, best son ever. I like my coffee with some creamer and lots of sugar. I look around, and there’s no sugar. Well, this is not how I want to start my day. I have to make a store run.

The traffic is pretty moderate today. Looking at my watch, it’s 10:22 am, and it seems like time is moving so fast when you’re trying to relax. I head into the local Mule Mart up the road; they have everything you can think of just about. Let's see where the sugar is. Found it. I should pick up a few more things while I’m at it. My mom would always tell me to be careful when I shopped, especially in the produce sections. I couldn’t be around the nuts; I had a severe peanut allergy. So I had to wear gloves when shopping. I had to read all the labels; It’s pretty hard shopping when you have a nut allergy. I head to the check-out line when I spot my old high school teacher, Mrs. Bitterman. I wanted to avoid her because I felt like I’d already wasted enough time on my day off. I ducked my head down, making my way over to aisle 7. I’m glad that’s on the opposite end of where she was. —I finally made it out of the checkout.

I’m home, and my roommates are awake. Everyone is getting their day started, and I’m just going to enjoy my day off and eat chocolate cake. Ashley walks by, but she seems a bit annoyed. So I ask her if she was ok; she didn’t reply. I shrug and walk to the coffee maker and poured my coffee. In that second, I turn around; there’s a knife through my stomach. Ashely? She continued to twist the knife and rotate it as she tried to carve a slice of cake. But why. It bothers me when you don't share your mom’s chocolate cake. She looked at me with disgust and hatred. You’re selfish; she continued to express her feelings while gutting me. My thoughts were to grab a bite of that cake; no matter what, if I’m going to die, at least I would have my mom’s cake. I staggered over to the fridge. Opening the door, I grabbed a hand full of my moms’ cake and stuffed it in my mouth. Within an instant, I fell to the floor; I gasped for air while chewing the cake. My throat closed instantly.

They found Ashely in her room two days later with the rest of the chocolate cake devouring it little by little; Ashely got arrested for my murder. The court found her to be mentally unstable, and she got sent to a psych hospital. That’s where she’ll live the rest of her days. My mom began planning my funeral. She and my dad were reminiscing. Dad: He never liked sharing that cake I made. Mom: He was so greedy. I guess I spoiled him too much. I don’t understand why she would do such a thing. In that instance, my mom’s cell phone rang. It was the police. Hello, this is officer Clem. We wanted to inform you know about the medical examiner’s report. Your son didn’t die from the knife wound; it was from the cake he ate. Something in the cake caused an allergic reaction. Mom’s jaw dropped along with her phone. She remembered trying to call me that day to let me know she’d given me the wrong cake. I should have called back, she sobbed.

Here I am, dead from one bite of chocolate cake.