Death by Chocolate

It had been twenty-four years. Twenty-four years since the Trunchbull had been seen or heard from; Twenty-four years since the hard glare from her piercing eyes stopped children in their tracks, or sent them running to cower behind their mother’s skirts; Twenty-four years of a secret held so tightly to a boy’s chest like a coveted prize, hidden away from those who lurked in the shadows.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her, not really; though if anyone deserved an early demise it was the Trunchbull.

He could still hear her dark, leather, boots clunking down the empty hallways, still see the steam blowing out through her large ears and snarling nose, the curl of her lip, the slicked-back hair pulled so tightly against her head that it almost resembled a skull. Or, perhaps it was just the skewed memory influenced by the overactive imagination of an eleven-year-old boy. The depiction was fair, though, especially since she had locked him in a small hole in the wall with menacing blades and other sharp objects of equal fun protruding around him. Bruce had the honour of being in the Chokey on more than one occasion.

Then, there was the assembly from Hell where he was forced to eat an entire chocolate cake in front of the whole school. It was every kid’s dream. Until it wasn’t. The Chokey was bad enough without all of the projectile vomit.

Bruce Bogtrotter was thirty-five years old and still couldn’t stomach even the tiniest sliver of a piece of chocolate cake. He told everyone that a piece had made him sick once, putting him off of the dessert forever. It wasn't necessarily a lie, but Bruce knew that it was actually the guilt from what he had done with a similar piece of cake. One would think that it would be easy for Bruce to avoid chocolate cake as he was an adult; Everyone knows that adults only eat cake on special occasions, like birthdays, where there was a 50/50 chance that the chosen cake would be vanilla. Bruce was the best and most celebrated baker in town, however, and his chocolate cake was famous. A fan favourite. Luckily, willing participants were always nearby to taste test if needed.

Bruce had a good life. He enjoyed his job, had many wonderful friends and family, and met a girl who he was sure he would marry someday. Mentally, he was in a good place. He had gone to therapy every week for the last ten years to unpack all of the trauma caused by his old principal and was finally starting to get past it all.

Besides, how was he supposed to know that the Trunchbull was allergic to peanuts?

He could still see her, dishevelled and distressed as she tried to weave through the crowd of angry children. He could still feel that moment of triumph as he smeared a piece of his mom’s chocolate cake into her mouth. It wasn’t until months later when rumours started to swirl about the old headmistress’ disappearance, believed to have been murdered or driven insane by a mysterious ghost named Magnus. While his schoolmates speculated about the different methods the ghost could have used to do the old lady in, Bruce learned that she was deathly allergic to peanuts. He was fairly sure that the fated piece of cake that he unceremoniously shoved in her mouth contained peanuts, but kept it to himself. He went along with the ghost story anyway, even though Bruce didn’t believe in ghosts. He hadn’t been in Miss Honey’s class the day that the ghost allegedly drove her to insanity, but he had heard the story so often by his schoolmates that he could picture every detail. He wanted to believe them, but he had always been a logical child.

The day began like any other. Bruce was baking in the back when he heard the bell chime, signalling the entrance of a customer. Whoever entered had a heavy foot. All of the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up as he heard the voice that frequented his recurring nightmares.

“Much too good for children,” the voice cackled.

The frosting tube he was holding to decorate his latest creation dropped to the ground, the red frosting squirting out like thick blood on the tile. As if in slow motion, Bruce walked the five steps into the storefront and locked eyes with those unmistakable, piercing, blue ones.

“Miss Trunchbull?” he croaked in utter disbelief.

The woman’s eyes widened in recognition and desperation. It was undeniably her. She looked exactly the way that Bruce had remembered, with the exception of her straw hair, still in the same hairstyle, now a mess and with substantially more silver.

“L-leave me alone!” She shouted frantically, then dashed out of the store like the devil himself was after her. Maybe he was.

Bruce and his shop girl, Sophie, locked eyes in stupefaction. Without a second thought, Bruce removed his apron and baker’s hat, and chased after the ghost of his past, completely oblivious to Sophie’s shouts of concern.

After sprinting four blocks, Bruce stopped, hands on his knees as he gulped down air to soothe his aching lungs. A commotion from down the alley to his left snagged his attention and a small gasp escaped him as he took in the scene before him.

He had found Trunchbull. So did the police arresting her.

Without giving much thought to the consequences, Bruce approached the scene, only to be stopped by an officer when he got too close.

“Sir, this is official police business, please leave the premises.”

“Bruce?”

Bruce was startled that one of the detectives knew his name. She was just a few inches shorter than him, wore a smart, blue blazer with a white blouse underneath, dark denim and black, suede boots. On her eyes were sunglasses and she wore a red ribbon in her bobbed hair. She removed her glasses and those blue-green eyes that always seemed wiser than her years met his own.

“Matilda?”

His old schoolmate was always so kind to him. He wasn’t certain, but he suspected that she was the one who shouted words of encouragement up to the stage where he was almost defeated by Trunchbull and her cake. The last he had heard she had gone away to university before Bruce had even decided where he wanted to go to high school. He had admired how smart she was, but also how kind. He and the entire school were so jealous that she had been adopted by Miss Honey, the epitome of kindness.

“Hi Bruce,” she said warmly, “You look well. I heard that your pastries are to die for. I was going to stop by and pick some up for my mum.”

“Er-thanks, you’re looking good too. You’re a detective now..” he began, but his attention was continuously pulled to the arrest of his childhood principal. A principal who was very much alive.

“Is that the Trunch?” he couldn’t help blurting.

Matilda frowned, her eyes also moving towards the scene.

“It is,” she confirmed.

Bruce felt like a weight was lifted off of his chest. He wasn’t a murderer after all. He was so happy, he could cry.

Matilda eyed him intently. She had always been unnervingly observant.

“I thought she was dead,” he admitted.

Matilda shook her head.

“She’s been at a hospital since her... mental breakdown,” she explained, still frowning. “I was notified that she went missing...given her relationship to my mum. So I came to town and joined the search for her. She was hanging around the old school, shouting and cursing out kids before running away again.”

That had been another shock for his eleven-year-old self when he heard that his most-hated principal and most-beloved teacher were related. It was also rumoured that the ghost that haunted her was that of Miss Honey’s father, whom Trunchbull had murdered in cold blood. But schoolyard gossip wasn’t always the most reliable.

Trunchbull started yelling then, struggling against the officers who tried to calm her.

“Don’t let him take me!” She yelped, “He’s here! I can sense him! Look, he keeps moving that garbage in the corner!”

Bruce watched the scene in horror. She was such a strong, albeit mean old woman who was now brought to her knees by the small movement of the wind.

“Well,” Matilda said, “I have to get back to work. It was nice seeing you, Bruce.”

Bruce walked back to his shop in a daze. He could still hear Trunchbull shouting from blocks away. He couldn’t make out what she was saying exactly but thought he heard her shout for a Magnus. Perhaps anaphylactic shock would have been kinder.

The bell chimed as he reentered his shop, instantly bombarded with frantic questions from Sophie. But Bruce was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. Thankfully, there was no one in the storefront.

“I’ll explain it all tomorrow,” he said to Sophie, “I think we’ll close up early today.”

Once the shop was tidied and closed down for the night, Bruce gathered his personal items and a few other things before setting off on his walk home. Fifteen minutes later, Bruce arrived at his flat, feeling both elated and like he could crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of the week.

Before he would let himself this luxury, however, there was something that could not be put off.

Bruce sat down at his worn, wooden kitchen table, his chair screeching against the floor. He placed the paper bag he had brought home in front of him, followed by the metal fork he grabbed from the drawer moments earlier. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out a large, styrofoam take-out container.

His hand hesitated only a few seconds before he determinedly opened the container, stuck his fork in the glorious piece of baked perfection, and shoved the fork into his mouth.

The moment the moist layers of cake reached his mouth he moaned. He was transported back to his childhood, to the taste of his schoolboy days. Every bite was increasingly more delicious and he couldn’t seem to get the cake into his mouth fast enough. Soon, he ditched the fork and picked it up with his hands, not caring that he was now practically wearing the cake. Echoes of “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce!” sang in his head in memory as sweet chocolate mixed with his saliva, his taste buds rejoicing after being denied for so long.

He thought back to Miss Trunchbull and how she hadn’t died after eating a piece of his chocolate cake. Too bad. Death by chocolate would be the way to go. And this cake-his cake- was to die for. Perhaps he would send a piece to Trunchbull, sure that it would cheer her up after today. He really was the best baker in town, and his chocolate cake had won many well-deserved awards. He used his mother’s recipe after all.