The Last Piece

By Demetria Wilcoxon

I contemplated at the table that night. The one craving I couldn’t ignore hovered over me like guilt. According to doctors, I had to pretend as if the foods I love the most are non-existent. No matter how satiable the smooth, dark taste of chocolate was, it was debilitating to my health, yet, I’ve always been a glutton for its rich taste. Yes, I'm a big girl, but you shouldn’t use that as some barometer of judgment. Big girls are obligated to eat like everyone else. Before I was obstructed from enjoying the chocolate, double layer treat, I enjoyed the baked dessert amongst friends and family. We’d all not only share a laugh or two—we’d share memories. This house would fill with laughs. And that’s so you’d get the gist of a house that was alive, and you’d get the gist that I wasn’t alone in reducing the chocolate treat down to a mere slice. The slice was surrounded by crumbs on the base of the ceramic plate. Along with the excess chocolate smears that came along with the savory slice. One slice remaining. I'd sit there contemplating on whether I should ignore medical advice just for a moment’s worth of bliss. I mean, in a way, I didn’t care much. There were times when I grabbed the plate, held it over the trash. It immediately made me think of those movies where the protagonist held the antagonist over a cliff or an edge and drops them at the end of the movie. Or in some cases they don’t—I was one of the ones that didn’t. The fork was ready to push it off into the trash, but I stopped myself short, returning the plate and chocolate treat back to the dining room table. It was back to square one. Back to the stare down. And I was surely losing. Ignoring the loud craving—doctor’s orders—wasn’t working. I was always in and out of the hospital. I knew I’d gotten sick easily. The sickness wasn’t ordinary, however, and rather wonder and ponder proceeding steps, I’d ignore everything the medical professionals would advise me. Including the constant allergic reactions, my body had to my favorite, sweet, dark treat.

Wouldn’t that have made the headlines truly the funny papers? Death By Chocolate would headline the clickbait pages. I would’ve mentioned newspapers, but when I explained to nieces and nephews what they were, they would stare at me confused, then go back to their smartphones and tablets. I bit my lower lip at the thought. I chuckled to myself as the thought tickled me what we got accustomed to today, and held so dear, would become obsolete tomorrow.

It had been a long time since I had a hospital visit, much like my family visits, they seemed to coincidence. How long had it been since either one called or checked in on me? I understand that we’re all adults. I guess we all have lives that we need attending to. So, with me being alone, all I had was time. And sitting between time and me was a single slice of chocolate cake. Putting its moisture to the test, I sunk the fork into the edge of the chocolate, slicing off a thin piece. We don’t take precautions when it comes to our faults. This does happen because we want nothing more than to indulge in the rewards and not have to suffer the consequences. Like a criminal robbing a bank in hopes to get away with the cash, knowing they run the risk of getting caught. Only now, I hesitate with every gaze at the chocolate goodness gracing my presence. Well, since I now sat at home, alone, I decided to take a bite. Immediately, I thought about the movie Deer Hunter, where Christopher Walken and Robert DeNiro were forced to play Russian Roulette. The slice was the one round I’d taken my chances on. It felt good having that one last piece, I was satisfied. The chocolate sliding into my mouth, in between my teeth for a few chews, enjoying the rich flavor. It was as if only one round was in the chamber, I finished it satisfyingly before sliding the plate into the kitchen sink. Even for that moment of bliss, it was worth it. That was until I felt my throat constricting, making it hard to breathe. I sat there on the couch, scrambling for my cellphone. I knocked it over before falling to the floor. No husband to call out to. No kids to scramble across my limp body, floundering on the floor, now knowing what a fish out o0f water looked like. If this was Russian Roulette, my luck was I caught the live round.

***

My eyes fluttered open. I felt people standing over me. Medics? Was I successful at contacting them? Maybe. But I did struggle to call them on my cellphone. It wasn’t long before I was bombarded with questions. Mostly about my medical history, or if I’ve had a history of collapsing. My neighbor had stepped in amongst everyone to see if I was okay. She was kind of bubble-headed, but she meant well. She explained when she came over to see how I was doing, she saw me lying on the floor, passed out, and immediately ran back to her house to call the emergency center. She was a baker, so to help me with my troubles, she had a surprise for me. The baked aroma carried through the house. Once they handled my allergic reaction, they still hung around the house to get any last statements and stuff they needed for medical records. Curiously, I removed the plastic covering concealing the treat—a freshly baked chocolate cake underneath.