I have gotten completely out of writing.
Do you know that feeling when you are so overwhelmed by everything you feel you need to do, that the only thing you can manage to do are things that are unimportant an not particularly enjoyable? Like you need to clean, study, call the bank, post that letter, call you grandma, work out, wash the windows, and finish writing that assignment, but the only thing you manage to do is cleaning out the kitchen cupboards, or playing cellphone games you got tired of last year?
Well that has been my last 3 months. I don’t spend as much time doing the things I should be doing as I should, nor do I spend as much time as I would like doing the things that I enjoy.
So, I am gonna start trying to write at least one thing a week, and I will try to post them on here. Today I am finding a picture on reddit, and writing the store of what goes on outside the frame.
I am writing directly into the blog BTW, no editing no nothing. Unfiltered me XP
When the cakes fights back
The first attack hit at a senior home. The elderly had been given thin slices of red velvet cake with their coffee that evening. It was Mrs. Olsen’s birthday, she had turned 93. None of her family had come to see her, but her grandson’s estranged wife had sent the cake, with a nice card. The cake had been good, moist, not too dense, with a deep chocolate flavor. The elderly had enjoyed it immensely, and the staff had put the rest in the fridge to enjoy once they had put the elderly to sleep.
Annie, a young nurse straight out of school had gone in to take a slice, and ten minutes later they found her on the floor, her face and the skin on her chest missing and wounds covered in icing and cake crumbs.
The media blew it up like some sort of bestial murder. Over the next month thirty-four more attacks were discovered, no witnesses to any of them. The media were screaming serial killer. The amount of the victims missing after each attack varied. Sometimes just the skin was gone, sometimes just the innards, sometimes the upper or lower torso, sometimes just the bones were left. But every time the victims had icing and cake crumbs on them.
Then an attack happened that had witnesses. Three young girls were having strawberry cheesecake at a coffee shop and suddenly the cake oozed off their forks and onto their faces. We only know this ‘cos someone across the street caught the attack by accident in the background of a picture. The government covered it up, of course. The barrista went missing and the only other patron got committed to an asylum. It was hushed up so hard not even rumors started spreading until weeks later.
Which is why we ordered the chocolate cake with blue and orange icing for my brothers third birthday.
The birthday went along just fine, we had hot dogs and soda, and the gifts were piled on a side table. Matthew, the spoiled little fucker had been trying to guilt mom into letting her open them since the guest started arriving, but traditions are traditions, and the gifts were not to be touched until after we had cake. Mom was stubborn like that.
We brought out the cake, and Matthew plain refused to blow out the candles, since they were three small cake candles and not the fancy big, blue one shaped like a number three that he had seen in store. He had thrown a fit when mom wouldn’t buy it for him, and I inwardly groaned when he started his pre-scream whimpering, it was going to be one of those days. Mom blew the candles out for him and took them off, and then the little shit smashed his hands into the cake, not waiting for it to be cut, and started stuffing it into his face.
When he started howling I assumed it was because mom moved the cake out of his reach and started cutting into it. I stilling remember the bone-chilling shriek that followed to howl. When I close my eyes I can still see the orange icing oozing up his chubby little arms towards his elbows, and the bones suddenly visible where his fingertips had been only a moment before. I acted on some sort of instinct I guess, tearing him out of his chair, sprinting to the bathroom, all but tossing him into the tub and spraying him with the shower. He just sat there, normally he hated baths, but he just sat there, screaming, and I stood the spraying him with water and yelling for someone to call an ambulance. Then the screaming started in the living room. I had gotten Matthew clean of cake and icing, but he had huge flesh wounds on his face, and hands, like he had been eaten away by acid or something.
I grabbed him and ran back into the living room. Auntie Lily, sat in a corner screaming. Mary, my cousin, stood on a chair in the middle of the floor, silent, looking like she had witnessed a massacre, which I guess she just had. Everyone else were dead.
I don’t know where the calm came from, but I gave Matthew to Auntie Lily, and helped Mary off of the chair. We all took care to avoid the cake. Then we went outside and Auntie Lily drove us to the emergency room, no one said a word. Fifteen people were dead.
There was no cover up this time, I called the newspapers instead of the police. I had to call three different ones until someone took my bait and went out. I had made up some cock and bull story about an attack by a human serial killer, and they went out. The camera guy they sent caught the attack on the journalist by the leftover cake.
I don’t know why I did it like that, but I am glad I did. The truth about the cakes got out. We still don’t know why it is happening. It’s been three months. Matthew didn’t make it. Mary hung herself the week after. Auntie Lily put herself in a loony bin, she doesn’t believe what she saw. I am on my own now. I can’t go back home, the whole block has been quarantined. I am heading out to the woods. See if i can build myself a tree hut to live in. Far away from people. And cakes.