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Original Fiction Piece, submitted to Gionna Stoddard for ENGL 290 - Spring 2022

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of blood, burns, injuries, emotional abuse

Cuts and Burns

The kitchen was illuminated with the syrupy gold of the early-morning sun and filled

with the tip-toeing sizzles from a pan, at which a woman in a pale, blue dress and grey apron

stood, poking at bacon with a spatula.

“Ouch. Damn it.”

Nellie flicked her hand rapidly in an attempt to ease the sharp pain of the burn from the

pan. She rushed over to the sink and turned on the faucet, throwing her right hand underneath.

The sharp pain turned to numbness as the cool water lopped itself over the freshly-pink branding

from the pan. Nellie let out a sigh of relief as the faucet granted her a moment of comfort.

Reluctantly, she tore her hand from the running water and rushed to the bathroom connected to

the kitchen. She used her left hand to rummage through the medicine cabinet, eventually landing

on the vibrant green packaging of an aloe-based ointment. She applied it to her right hand and

wrapped the hand in bandages. Huffing, she crossed back into the kitchen.

The sound of crackling from the bacon in the pan filled every corner of the kitchen,

slamming itself against the low, pale-green walls. It engaged in battle with the Perry Como song

filtering from the Philips radio on the counter. (She hated the acoustics of that shallow, lifeless

kitchen.) The amplified smacks and pops faded behind a curtain of radio hits as Nellie lifted the

pan from the hot stove, scooping the bacon pieces onto a platter by the sink. She poured the

resulting grease into a bowl and placed the pan back onto the stovetop. Lowering the heat level,

she allowed some freshly-scrambled eggs to slowly heat themselves into an omelette. She
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ducked below the counter into a cupboard and hastily pulled out her mother’s old wooden cutting

board.

One of the only things of value in this damned kitchen.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Radio hits, this time from the McGuire Sisters, found themselves, once

again, overshadowed by noise as Nellie hurriedly diced a deep-red tomato she had retrieved from

the cream-toned Fridgidaire.

Nellie always thought the cream clashed poorly with the green walls.

Charlie didn’t care.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Nellie glanced up from the tomato and peered out the window. In her

blossoming cherry tree, she spotted a bird fluttering its wings, picking at twigs and bits of dust

from its wings. It stepped to the edge of its nest and Nellie watched as it dived, spreading its

wings and flying into the sky. As she watched it disappear over the treeline, she was here. In this

sickly kitchen. Making an omelette.

For Charlie.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Thud.

The knife had slammed onto the counter, Nellie holding her hand. Pain shot through her

arm as bright crimson trickled its way through her grasp. She found herself rummaging through

the medicine cabinet once again. After cleaning up the deep cut on her left index finger, she

placed a bandage over the wound. Back to the kitchen.

With both hands wounded and bandaged, cooking breakfast would prove to be a bit more

of a chore for Nellie. She struggled to grab a plate from the high cupboard over the toaster oven,

(Beautiful, she thought, always my favorite of mother’s dishes…) but managed to bring it to the

counter, placing the golden-brown omelette onto the circular display. She dumped the tomatoes
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and placed the bacon onto the omelette, and folded the egg carefully over its contents. She

decorated the top of the egg with shredded cheddar sourced from the Fridgidaire, speckling the

dish with a light dusting of salt and pepper. (Not her best, but perhaps the added cheddar will

mask that to Charlie.) She lifted the plate from the counter to carry it to the dining table in the

next room. She turned around…and into Charlie.

Nellie watched in horror as the plate fell to the floor. The hand-painted, floral dish

couldn’t stand a chance against the cold, hard tile of the kitchen floor. It shattered. What seemed

like millions of pieces flowered out into broken petals, bent and ridgid. It was almost as if it were

a tragic art piece, with the smashed omelette as the centerpiece. In a state of pure disarray, Nellie

knelt down, picking up a triangular piece of the plate, a pale pink flower standing out beautifully

against its off-white backdrop.

“Damn it, Nell. That was my breakfast.”

Nellie looked up, her husband’s looming shadow glaring down at her. His thick mustache

was twisted downwards into a disapproving frown. She sat still for a moment, her twisted

stomach sinking, her shattered heart rising.

“Come on, clean this mess up. And make me a new omelette. Try not to be so clumsy,

Nell.” He grabbed a newspaper from the edge of the counter and disappeared into the living

room.

Nellie looked back down at the gloomy display on the floor. Sorrow bubbled in her

throat, making her neck ache in pain. She pushed past it, however, and began to clean up the

mess. She tossed the omelette and its contents into the wastebin, and moved on to the remains of

her plate. She swept it all into a dustpan, and watched as it tumbled and landed solemnly on top

of the flattened omelette, almost in slow motion..

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Nellie got up and brushed herself off. She then peered down at the large broken piece of

the plate, a piece she had held onto.

“You done cleaning yet?” Charlie chimed from the next room, “Get on, make my

breakfast. I haven’t got all morning.”

Almost instinctively, Nellie closed her hand and tightened her grasp on the broken glass,

effectively carving canyon-like slices into her palm. Charlie re-appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Hey, I was talking to you-” he stopped his speech dead in its tracks as soon as he noticed

the blood dripping from Nellie’s hand. He crossed to her and grabbed her arm tightly, lifting her

hand.

“Now you’ve done it. Cut your hand. As though you haven’t done enough this morning.”

Charlie squeezed the bandages that Nellie had applied earlier in the morning.

“Looks like you’ve been struggling all morning.” He threw down her hand and nudged

her towards the bathroom.

“Well, go on. Clean yourself up. You better hurry too. You’re lucky I’m a patient man.”

Charlie trudged back out of the kitchen. Nellie watched him disappear past the door frame before

she streamlined to the bathroom. She shut the door quietly, locking it behind her. She placed the

piece of the plate down at the top of the sink carefully, then set her hands on the rim of the white

bowl, painting it a stark red with her blood. She looked up at the medicine cabinet and into its

exterior mirror. She could hardly even recognize the woman that stared back. Her hair was in

tangles, her once tightly-woven bun found itself frayed and shambled. Her face was beet-red, a

result of the wave of pain that was fighting to escape her throat. Her eyes were red and puffy,

despite the fact that she had not shed a single tear. They were framed by dark circles, which

faded into her flushed, bony cheeks.

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She looked down, watching her blood flow slowly from her left hand and into the sink

drain. She lifted her hands up, letting the light hit against her yellow bandages, adding a shimmer

to her deep gashes in her palm. Behind her hands, she saw the woman in the mirror again. The

woman’s lips began trembling. In an instant, as though a dam had broken, Nellie flooded with

the pain in her throat, and it exploded through.

Nellie couldn’t see a thing. It was a blur, nothing had a solid shape through the river of

tears. Tears that she had held back for far too long. Between breaths, she clutched her chest in

agony. It felt as though her heart had been stabbed. It throbbed painfully, each and every beat

banging her dizzied head.

She was drowning in noise. Her mourful wailing, Charlie’s pounding on the door, his

screams of rage over his still-empty stomach, her own heartbeat; the irrepresible dome of sounds

danced viciously around her, scraping her ears with such violent intensity. She tried to gasp for

air as each wave of pain subsided, but found herself immediately getting swallowed up by the

sea once again.

She craned her neck upwards, and peered out the bathroom window. It granted a perfect

view of the birdsnest in the cherry tree. The nest that was now empty.

She imagined the bird again: brilliant red wings, outstretched as it plucked twigs and bits

of dirt from its vibrant feathers. Bobbing its way to the edge of the nest, diving forward and

spreading its wings. Those beautiful wings, flapping, carrying the bird, higher, higher. Away

from the nest, away from the cherry tree. Away from everything it knew to be real.

The bird disappeared into the soft blue of the morning skies. The skies that Nellie now

saw in full through her small bathroom window. The skies that watched down on that fateful day.

Nellie’s sobs dissipated. She pulled herself from the floor and faced the white door. A door that
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still cried out in rhythmic pain as Charlie’s fists continued to drum it on the opposite side. Nellie

took a breath and placed her hand on the doorknob, ready to push it open.

Today, everything’s gonna change.