Best Served Hot

Deep confusion fills me as locked double doors stare back at me. No way… they locked me in here!? They should still be close enough to hear me. My aching wrist and a mild headache tells me they couldn’t as I lay my head down at my booth. No alarms, no janitor or manager in sight. This place is a dump. The ‘we’re closed’ signs mock me as my consciousness fades. I told them I was gonna be a minute… well, they’ll definitely hear it from me tomorrow.

The visitors I greet no longer seem to want to stay for long. I do have some that decide to stay; they aren’t very talkative, though they all seem to favor the color red. Usually lying down, the reds sleep in one spot for as long as I’ve known them. They walk by avoiding eye contact with me and dodge my questions. I don’t want anything besides the way out… they always come in, so there must be a way out. The visitors that do speak tell me, “Why are you here?” or "There's no home for a thing like you.” I know the bags under my eyes are deep, but kids can be very harsh. I would love a day off too.

I’ve searched endlessly for an exit, but it seems I don’t know this place as well as I thought I did. I wish I knew how to turn on the heat because it’s gotten so cold. The days all blend together in a big mash of echoey screams, blurs of red, and the sounds of liquid dripping. I haven’t heard the sound of the old jingle the intercom used to play; even that would be comforting right now. They can’t stay on vacation; they can’t avoid me forever.

The skylight trickles the moon's glow down into my eyes. The stale air decorated with dust and the musk of age. Days of laughter and youth no longer fill these benches. My steps are heavy, speaking to no one beyond but more cold porcelain tiles. Empty storefronts, chain-linked barricades, trash, and old flyers accompany my homesick soul.

What did I do to deserve being locked in here? The hope of meeting someone important is dead. I’m losing my patience. I’ll admit I’ve tried to break my way out more than a couple of times. I don’t remember any of the few I do meet anymore besides the fact that they’re always wearing a red shirt. The loud thudding of the red shirts' useless footsteps irks me to my core. The sounds of their panting, rude slurs mixed with annoying screeches. If you’re so scared, answer my fucking questions and I’ll be out of your hair. If you aren’t who I want to see, I will remove you. I hate it here.

Is the sun still a thing… The nights seem perpetual. The walls have grown darker alongside the metallic aroma that taints the air. The feeling in my palms is gone, but the red stains are permanent. My voice doesn’t sound like my own: harsh, incoherent, and brutal. Every sound and movement puts me on edge. Pathways are cluttered with lumps of red and pools of red. The static moon in the starlight… The echo of hollow nonsensical voices. The buzzing of flickering fluorescents. The hum of the afterlife churning far in the distance. I’ve become accustomed to all but one sound… one sound I haven’t heard in forever. A click. A loud, sharp singular click echoes throughout the mall.

A door I’ve never seen before… how did it get here? I know every nook and cranny of the place. Doesn’t matter; if this is an exit, I am taking it and not looking back. Gripping the door handle, I twist and push it open. Outside… I am actually outside!

“FINALLY!” I shout so loud I swear the ground shakes.

The sun wasn’t out but the moon, my buddy, cascaded over the stairs and bushes toward the street below. The breeze caressed my lonely soul. The cold air tickled my goosebumps laced my skin. The familiar scent of caramelized onions wipes my nose clean of the dingy mall stench. The deepest sense of hunger I’ve ever felt before propels me down the street.

My steps grew lighter as the burden of work and responsibility washed away. The tasty smell led me through parking lots, down roads, over railroads, and across freeways. The street I landed on struck me with deep familiarity. Home.

AH YES! I take a large sniff, and my soul grows warm. The smell is my mother’s cooking. Unmistakable emotions start to bubble up within me. Joy, disbelief, and peace, to name a few. Every step takes me further away from hell and closer to heaven.

The door looked like I remembered. I guess not that much had passed after all. Turning the knob, the old door welcomed me with a face full of oak wood. The door wasn’t opening. I try again and again and again and again. No give.

“Not this shit again!" Anger settles in, and I slam my balled fist against the door repeatedly!

“MOMMMMM!! IT’S MEEEEEEEE! OPEN UP! I’M HOME!” I hear a loud but distant snarly shriek with all of my words.

Banging with both hands but no response came. I kick and even shoulder ram the door for not even an inch of movement. Feeling tired, I slide my back against the door down to the ground. The smell has grown so rich and glorious. Urging me inside my parent’s house; I’m drooling. I hear the scrape of a spoon against a pot, the clink of a knife, and the swoosh of a dish across a counter. The want is so strong, a part of me begs me to run away, but I can’t imagine passing on a home-cooked meal.

“Welcome home, come inside!" a woman’s voice from inside the house spooks me.

I reach for the door handle, but my arm doesn’t move. What? It feels almost as if I don’t have control over my body like… I am pulling myself away for some reason. I reach again, and as if I were forcing sensation into a numb limb, I finally break through and grab the handle. It’s warm. Panting, sweat drips down my forehead, burning.

Every step I take inside shreds me and gets more painful than the next. The smell of my favorite meal drives me further. I take the left I’ve run around countless times and see the dinner table where I had a lifetime's worth of dinners. A medium-sized marble bowl sits in front of my seat. Steaming. My mother is nowhere in sight, but I could never mistake the scent of her cooking. My moans of hunger are so raw they sound like the burbles of a savage demon.

My body is hot from deep — deep within me. The burning sensation transforms into a blaze; I roar. The pain is excruciating. The heat inhumanely rips through my body's crevices and creases. Every bone is cremated; my muscles are deteriorating. Peeling off my skin with a hell-treated hot wax. Waves of pain course through my heart, but my steps are unfaltering. I need at least one taste. One gulp.

My hand cups the side of the bowl and everything reveals itself. The veil over my soul is lifted. The light of the sun showers through the open windows with disrespectful comfort. Feeling incredibly weak, I can’t hold myself up any longer. A hand finds itself on my shoulder and assists me into the seat. I look over to whom it belongs. Mom!?

No, not mom, but a woman in a deep red blouse adorned with black and orange beads etched with symbols. Talismans earrings that glow from embers as they burn bottom up. Tassels around her neck that radiate an energy similar to the warmth of a great memory. Black gauze-like wrappings circle her arm, elbow up. Her confident amber eyes sparkle, eerie but clear. Her grip on me doesn’t feel tight, yet I know I could never remove it.

"Eighty-six. Does that number mean anything to you?” Her voice is soft and pleasing.

My soul flinched and curled. I don’t know why; it had no significance to me. I shook my head.

“One thousand and fifty-two days?" I shook once more, and she made a face as if taking note of something.

“French Onion. Your favorite, right? I made it myself." Her sense of accomplishment and pride embedded in those words.

“Well…I mean it issss your mom’s recipe but you know what I mean,” she chuckles. “Go on. Taste it.”

My eyes return to the bowl. What was once my salvation now fills me with uncertainty. Did she do justice to my mom’s recipe? Something from deep inside clinged to my hand. Despite the unsteadiness of my wrist, I collect the spoon. Breaking apart the cheese top layer haphazardly, I gather the caramelized onion underneath. Bringing it towards my mouth, I salivate. My arm pulsates and my eye twitches as if spice is in the air. The closer I raise the broth to my nose, the less tantalizing the scent becomes, degrading to a medical-like poison.

Her delicate hand slid against the back of mine. Guiding me through the motion of taking the gulp. A warmth of depths I’ve never encountered purifies and detaches my soul. Looking at my reflection in the empty spoon, I don’t see myself. Not the man I lived my whole life as, I see a pale hollow-faced, black-eyed monster. Blood starts to return to my complexion but also begins dripping out the side of my mouth. Tainting my shirt red. My eyes start to fall.

‘Ah…I hate red shirts.’