Sour

Leaves blew across the crosswalk. The bitter cold bit at her skin, the tips of her ears were numb, and so was her nose, and they were colored a bright red. It was a bleak time of year, not that late in the day but it was still empty. Houses passed by, colorless, meaningless, occupied but not homes.

The few cars that passed by on the road were going more than the speed limit, trying to get out of this town as fast as they could. But still, she trudged on. The dead trees stretched above her, and slowly but surely she left the neighborhood, and got into the small cluster of stores that was just enough to call this a town. A lot of the store fronts had ‘for lease’ signs on them, or ‘closed permanently’, the dark storefronts stark next to the few with lights on.

The grocers was the biggest and brightest store, but the bell didn’t even ring when she walked in anymore. The employee at the counter didn’t look up from their phone, and the lights above buzzed slightly. Shoving her hands into her thick coat pockets she walked past the produce, a few apples catching her eye enough to deter her, picking one to contemplate buying it. It was bruised and squishy on the hidden side. She makes a face, and puts it back down, shoving her hand back into her pocket.

Fingers play with a loose string as she gets to the bakery side of the store. There is only one thing she needs. A single slice of chocolate cake. Premade, plastic box, cheap sprinkles on top. But that was fine, more than perfect actually. She picks it up, pays, and heads straight home.

As she gets closer to her house, the box in her hands starts to feel heavy, a ton of bricks starting to weigh her down, arms shaking as she holds to it tight, breathing heavily, brows furrowed.

Managing to get to her door, she unlocks the door, rushing in and slamming it behind her. The cake box is light again, and she sets it down as she bends over bracing herself on her knees, breathing heavy. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Straightening, she turns around and locks the door, taking off her outer layers, and hanging them up on an empty coat rack to the right. Picking up the cake box, she turns on the lights as her feet pad into the kitchen.

Quaint, old kitchen. Peeling wallpaper, old children's drawings taped to the walls, and on the white fridge. No dishwasher in sight, but an old microwave oven sat on the white counters. She sets the cake down on the table, the floor creaking as she moves further into the kitchen. A laugh echoes from somewhere in the house. She’s used to it by now.

She opens a rickety brown drawer, having to jiggle it open. It only houses candles and a couple of matches tucked in a strike box. It's all she needs, grabbing it and closing the drawer with her hip, she turns around to the table.

The cake in its plastic box sits there. It suddenly seems so far away, like the trip there is going to be antagonizing. Every step is a dragged foot closer. Heavy legs keep her from getting there quickly.

Her hands clutched the supplies tightly. The eternity to get to the table is agonizing, but she finally gets there and pulls the chair out, sitting down in it with a heavy sigh. She sets the things down, and stares at the cake again, pristine slice layered evenly, colored sprinkles molded into it.

She opens the box, it crackles annoyingly as she pushes it open, unlocking the tabs. The lid falls open, and the scent of chocolate frosting hits her nostrils. It's nauseating. Sickly sweet. Her mouth waters.

She purses her lips, and grabs a yellow candle, shoving it into the cake. Pushing the matchbox open, grabbing one and quickly striking it.

She holds it in her hand, and the flame dances silently above her fingers. It burns slowly down the piece of wood. The flame flickers, and leaves the wood curling over and blackened in its wake. Ruined. The flame gets to her fingers, kissing them with its heat. It gets unbearable and her hand drops it for her, luckily it burns out on the table.

Her hand is trembling when she grabs another one, and she strikes it again. She steadies herself with a deep breath, and moves her hand and holds the flame to the wick of the candle.

The wax heats up, and beads, one falling down the shaft of it. The wick flares, and she shakes the match out, setting the smoking wood to the side. The candle is lit, it slowly drips more and more wax.

Starting to pool at the bottom of it, the sprinkles enveloped into the wax, the frosting covered by it. She just stares at it, unblinking. Watching the flame travel down, until it dies again. Lost in her thoughts.

She closes the cake box, and slowly stands up, the chair scraping across the floor. Picking the box up, she walks over to the trash can, steps on it, and when the lid opens, the empty trash can exposed, she takes one hand and holds the cake over the bin, unceremoniously dropping it in the trash.

“I never liked chocolate. Only you did.” Her voice would’ve startled her if she didn’t know that she was speaking, not used to it. She’s speaking to the air.

“I hated chocolate. Hated it. But mom always bought a chocolate cake for celebrations, because it was Sarah’s favorite. Sarah loved this, Sarah loved that, Sarah got it.” She’s angry, her voice shakes slightly, and she takes a breath to calm down. Biting her tongue until it's too painful to bare before she talks again.

“Whatever Sarah wanted, Sarah got. I didn’t blame you at first. How could I? No one could blame Sarah, because Sarah was sick. Sarah doesn’t feel well today, you understand right?

Sarah got a bad diagnosis, we're going to cheer her up.

I don’t even remember the last time we celebrated my birthday, even though we shared it.” She laughs, a cruel thing.

“It was nice that we looked the same. Sometimes, if you weren’t around. I pretended to be you, and I would get the attention I was begging for. It was so nice, to feel loved, and wanted.” Her voice breaks, eyes narrowing, moving her jaw around for a second before she clears her throat and starts again, voice louder, firmer, angrier.

“So when mom and dad wanted me to give you some bone marrow, I thought about it long and hard. They told me how they would be so appreciative, and we could do whatever I wanted, and have a party.

It hurts, you know. Was painful.

But I did it because I craved that love. I did not do it for you. Afterwards, when they weren’t even in my hospital room, I realized that it wasn’t going to change them, it would always be Sarah.

So when you slowly got better, and Mom treated it like it was a miracle from god that you had fought so hard to win your fight and stay, so they treated you even better. I was basically erased from helping you. I didn’t matter once again.

The first time I ran away, I was scolded horribly, and asked how I could do that to my sister? What if she needed more bone marrow?

The second time, I was struck, a reminder.

The third time I was confined in my room.

I hated you. I hated you. You were everything I hated, you took everything, you had everything, yet you still got more. You were so spoiled you didn’t realize that it was wrong, and that you should’ve acted better.

Maybe I shouldn’t have blamed you. But blaming you, made me feel vindicated.

As you slowly started to decline again, I knew I didn’t want to go through it again. Mom made a comment of keeping me in a locked room so I couldn’t endanger my body so you could have your supply. That’s what tipped it.

You can blame mom for it really. For making me hate you. The hardest part was hiding your body. I wasn’t very strong, and I couldn’t sneak out.

But I did it.

Dragging you in a bag. I wonder if you’re still in that hole out there in the woods. Buried a good 7 feet down. Something I had done during the day when I was allowed to go for walks. I put a deer corpse on top of you.

I hope you won't be found.

But then again, it won’t be you that they find but me.

Sarah came back home early in the morning, crying because she couldn’t find you. Sarah, put up missing posters with her parents, looking for her dear beloved sister. A shame that she ran off. Who knows what she's doing out there.” She laughs, a wry chuckle.

“Being dead is nice, but so is being you.” Kicking the garbage can, she murmurs, “Happy 24th birthday Bridgette.” And then walks up stairs.

There are sounds in the kitchen. Footsteps, banging. Was something haunting her? Maybe. But she fell asleep quickly anyway.

The next morning, Sarah woke up happy. Getting dressed, humming to herself, looking forward to the day. She needed groceries, so she walked outside after getting ready.

She loved the fall, things so bright, and getting ready for winter. The leaves make the ground pretty, and picturesque.

Her neighbors houses sweet, welcoming, picket fences, green lawns, a nice day.

Empty shops provided new opportunities for others, new things to see and new people to meet. It was a good day.

And when she walked into the store, she walked past a nice lemon slice of cake, and picked it up and placed it in her cart.

Looking forward to eating it later. Lemon was her favorite after all.