Dinner Is Not Over

Written by Neenee Hu

Themes of gore, suicide, possession, murder

Smoke.

I've known that smell since I was a baby. It's the scent of burning food, the haze of damp firewood. It's seldom good.

I stumble on my roller-skates, highlighter pink heels slipping back as I try to reach the kitchen. I know that this smell, burning in my sinuses and painting my vision cloudy black, is a bad sign in a restaurant.

I push through the curtains that block the view of our kitchen, eyes wide. I'm prepared for the worst. A burning dish, an oven left on too long. My coworkers whip their heads towards me. They know I am the owner's daughter, so they do not question a word.

"Code Fog!" I call out through the dark haze, grasping at the wall for support as I wobble on my skates.

I hear the clatter of plastic dishes as my sister stumbles in behind me, clutching a bucket of water in one hand and pushing away dark, fiery hair from her face with the other.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" she yells, fanning herself and coughing. "Who started the smokers?!"

She pushes past me and narrows her eyes through the clouds, coughing hard.

I look over her shoulder. The culprit of the smoke? A gas fire.

"Wait!" I shout to her. "Ellie, no! It's a gas fire!"

But she doesn't listen. My little sister never does.

I watch her lift the bucket, the water sloshing through the plastic.

The water hits the fire, and naturally, it fuels the flame. The smoke grows, and I scream before my brain registers it.

I reach out my arm and grasp Ellie's elbow and tug her back. She's crying. Hard. The tears don't seem to stop streaming from her eyes as I tug her out of the kitchen and yell for help.

I unbuckle my roller skates and leave them by the door as I yank open a drawer. I find the lid for the pot, buried behind dishes and spatulas.

I wield it like a sword as I gingerly step back into the black, foggy cloud, coughing and covering my nose and mouth with my pleated collar.

I drop the lid over the fire and turn down the heat. Slowly, I step back and fan my face. My ears are ringing with adrenaline, and my heart is pounding through my chest.

The flame slowly dies down, and the smoke soon thins out. I turn back towards the carpet and walk, in my white socks and yellow warmers, to the door again.

I buckle back on my roller skates and glide to my sister. Somehow, her tears are still running as she sits, limp, against the wall.

"Ellie," I mumble to her. "It's over now."

She glances up at me, panting, her breath torn from her chest as she coughs.

She slowly raises a hand to wipe at the river of tears that is streaming down her cheeks. And that's when I see it.

Her finger, mutilated, is black and red, molten like the lava that pours from the volcano.

My eyes widen, and before I know it, I'm peeling her hand from her face and inspecting the wound with gentle care.

"Did you burn it?" I whisper.

She nods through her tears, letting out a wracked sob.

"No," she murmurs. "No, Kaija."

I cock an eyebrow. "What do you mean? It's burned. Severely burned, but still burned."

She exhales shakily.

"Kaija," she murmurs. "I caused the fire."

I pat her wrist.

"That's okay," I reply. "You're still young. Accidents happen."

She glances up at me again, and I feel like something's wrong with her face. It's blank, wet with tears, and red from adrenaline.

"Kaija," she repeats. "Dinner is not over."

. . .

That happened one day before Ellie went missing. I don't know where she went or why she left. But her bunk of our bed has been cold for years, and I still see her molten finger in my dreams.

Dinner is not over. That's the last thing she said to me.

What does it mean? Ellie was only 14. She didn't have wisdom. She just loved cooking mango sticky rice and smearing charcoal on canvas.

I click the snooze button on my alarm. The dawn blares through my window, but it's dimmer than it was yesterday. Odd.

I sit up in my sheets and toss and turn in my blankets. I feel a lump in my sheets. Maybe my claw clip fell while I slept.

I reach under the blanket and feel. No, it's not my hair clip. It's an envelope.

I place it in my lap. The parchment is shiny and white, pale against my dark skin.

I shakily open it and fish the paper out.

It seems threatening, even before my eyes scan the words.

My eyes widen as the words process through my mind.

Dear Kaija Eris Atiko, the letter reads. Dinner is not over.

. . .

I can't sleep. I know it.

I toss and turn and cry into my pillow. Sleep won't come, no matter what I think about.

I've counted the entire population of sheep. I've recited 2,000 digits of PI and still won't drift off. I think about pre-algebra, and still, nothing.

I stare at the ceiling, with the glow-in-the-dark stars and the little starry lamp that sparkles above me.

Dinner is not over.

What does that mean?

I look up. My body is chilly even though it's mid-June.

I don't think I'm alone.

Am I alone?

Perhaps I'm not.

Dinner is not over.

If it's not over now, then when?

. . .

Dinner's still not over. My two fingers tell me so.

Why did you eat my fingers? I hope they tasted good.

When will dinner be over?

. . .

Dinner is not over, Kaija.

The fork has not hit your plate with a rat-tat-tat.

The barrel hasn't pressed your skull.

The bullet hasn't flamed through your eyes.

Pick up your fork.

Suck up the gore.

Wait until dinner is done.