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In The Kitchen

by Sarah Beattie 5 months ago in Short Story
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The Game of Pretend

In The Kitchen
Photo by Naomi Hébert on Unsplash

Trigger Warning: Mentions of Self Harm

I look to the left and I look to the right. Around me were rows and rows of people and plastic folded chairs in a school gymnasium. At the front there was a stage. We had all received the same text message on our phone to report here. It was abnormal that a message like that was sent with such urgency but the room was set up already. Everyone was wondering why we were here.

The dean of students stood up in front of the room and said that there had been an attack in the capital. This was unsurprising considering the unrest that had been occurring in recent years not to mention this was not the first time that people had attempted to overtake the capital. Most people were unphased. The fact that we wrote this up as something that just occurs every now and then is heartbreaking. He goes on to tell us that no one died and there were only minor injuries.

Then we heard the jets fly overhead and the sound of Helicopters. This took everyone by surprise because all the pilots at the school were here in this room. The door slammed open as military personnel marched into the room. They surrounded us. One of them went up to the stage and sliced the throat of the dean.

I looked to my left and I could see the panic on everyone's face as the soldier stopped at the end of the row. There were only two people between me and the soldier. Well, this is the day we were going to die.

I started to think that I could do this, I could save us, but this wasn't the time. Wait. I just needed to wait. The man on stage gave orders and he and some of the troops departed.

Now is the time, I stand up on the chair summersault over the two people next to me. Grab the gun off the soldier and land in the middle of the aisle. I was primed and ready.

Wait, this is the wrong song. This song does not have the beat for this. I am transported back to the middle of the kitchen, searching my phone for the right song. I found it and just like that I am back.

I do cartwheels and jumps, dodging all the bullets coming at me and killing all the soldiers. I find myself on the front of the stage looking out at the sea of people and the dead bodies.

Car door slams. Crap, I have to make dinner. I'm back in the kitchen opening the fridge looking busy so I don't get yelled at about daydreaming. I'm back in the kitchen with my fat unathletic body who couldn't do a basic cartwheel if I tried. I put the food on the counter and pull out a knife to start cutting. I look down at my stomach and I start to press the knife to it.

The front door opened and my dad walked through. I start to cut the veggies and pretend like nothing happened. Pretend, pretend, all I do is pretend. Most of my interesting stories, the feelings, and emotions, how I present myself, it's all pretend. The best part is no one knows but me.

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Short Story

About the author

Sarah Beattie

I am 26 and nothing is going according to plan. The last few years have had a lot of ups and downs as I navigate through a quarter life crisis.

Follow me on Instagram @Beattisa

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