The Assignment

I have this assignment for my creative writing class to write a short story about chocolate cake, and not only do I hate chocolate cake, but I don’t eat dairy OR gluten, so I can’t even eat it anymore. I also can’t think of chocolate cake without thinking of the scene in Matilda where poor Bruce has to eat all of that cake that the cook made with her blood, sweat, and tears. And for some reason, that chocolate cake looks like the most delicious cake in the entire world to me — blood, sweat, tears, dairy, gluten, and all!

However, this assignment is actually inspired by Matilda, so that seems off the table as a theme for me. I don’t want to seem unimaginative.

So, I find myself at a coffee shop down the street from campus. I’m pretty sure this coffee shop changes ownership and names at least quarterly. Right now, I think it’s called Boggins-Smith, which is probably the owner’s last name, but really just sounds like a potion supply store in Diagon Alley.

Anyway, I am at such a loss for ideas that I walked down here and bought a piece of chocolate cake literally just to look at it. I thought maybe it would be like method acting and being near the cake and I don’t know, smelling it, would give me the perfect idea for a story. But, really, it’s just making me think about how inadequate this piece looks compared to the giant, moist delicacy Bruce Bogtrotter is forced (gets?) to eat.

After sitting eye-level with the cake, chin on the table, for several minutes, I decide to take a break from all this hard work and go to the bathroom. I grab my phone and ask the woman sitting next to me if she can watch my backpack while I’m gone. She says “sure” and I make my way to the back of the building where the door to the bathroom is.

Notice I said “door to the bathroom” and not just “where the bathroom is.” This is seriously the farthest bathroom I have ever had to walk to while staying in the same building. I open the door and walk down a long set of steep, dimly lit stairs. Once at the bottom, I’m in this yellow-tinted cinder block hallway that is more than mildly creepy and I remember why I always avoid coming down here. There are two options, I can either continue straight or turn right down an even longer, possibly darker, hallway. I could swear the bathrooms are straight ahead, but I see a paper sign with “restrooms” written on it in Sharpie and an arrow pointing down the other hallway.

“Great, not the way I wanted to go.” I say under my breath.

I turn and make my way down the hallway. My heart is pounding, but I tell myself it’s just my anxiety and I need to stop being irrational. I bravely march on until I find a door with a haphazard drawing of the women’s bathroom sign hanging on it.

What is going on here? I think. They had normal signs before.

I assume the other bathrooms are being cleaned or out of order and these are the employee bathrooms. I should feel privileged to use these elusive facilities.

I open the door and see only black. Someone grabs me from the side and the door slams shut.

I scream.

“No one can hear you down here.” A distorted, robotic male voice says.

I continue to scream for help despite what he says and a gloved hand clamps over my mouth.

“Shhhh, Lily. I just need you to tell me something and I’ll let you go.” The strange voice says again.

I begin crying uncontrollably, but stop screaming. Someone directs me to a chair and the glove moves away from my mouth.

“What is the code for the rare artifact room in the museum where you work?” He asks.

“What?” I ask through tears, truly not expecting that question.

“What is the code for the rare artifact room in the museum where you work?” He asks again, impatiently.

I remember my boss showing me the keycode on my second week and telling me how important it was to keep it safe. There are artifacts in there worth millions and others that are priceless. I promised her I would never tell.

“I don’t have a code,” I say, lying.

The man clicks his tongue as if I am a disobedient child.

“That’s not the answer I wanted, Lily.” He says. I hear a rustling to my right and suddenly someone is holding something cold and sharp to my throat.

I scream again.

“Okay Lily, I’m going to ask you one more time. What is the code?”

“9567!” I yell.

“How disappointing.” The voice says.

The man sighs and someone flips the lights on. And I find myself cowering in a room with two men I know — students in my class.

“James?! Jeremy?!” I scream.

“Hey there, Lily.” Jeremy says, dressed in all black and holding a knife.

I’m still shaking and barely get, “What the hell?” out of my chattering teeth.

“Sorry about that,” James says, the voice distortion now turned off. “We’re doing a social experiment for a psych assignment — how quickly people will give up information under pressure.”

Staring at him in unbelief, I ask, “Your professor is letting you do this?”

He shrugs, “I haven’t asked yet.”