Kitchen
of a girl gone mad

I quite like the tulips. I like tulips that are yellow and then fade to pink. I like the two colour tulips and the way they sit in Mrs. Finch’s garden. I like the tulips. Tulips are such lovely flowers.

“Oh, hello Kitty. Did you come to look at the tulips too…? They are quite pretty.”

I quite like the kitchen. From the kitchen window, I can see the tulips in Mrs. Finch’s garden. Lots of amazing things happen in the kitchen. Lots of amazing things. Sometimes when I’m in the kitchen, the kitty comes and joins me. He quite likes to watch me cook.

And in the afternoons when I’m chopping up carrots in a frenzy, little squares flying across the cutting board, the kitty will often jump up onto the counter and sit himself next to me. From the counter the great big window stands before us with no tulips in sight. The tulips in Mrs. Finch’s garden sit out of view on the left.

“Hello Kitty. It’s windy out to-day, isn’t it?”

Outside the window of the kitchen, the clouds roll precariously across the grey sky.

“I wonder if the tulips are okay.”

I get no response.

“What’s wrong? You haven’t talked to me in a while. Did I make you mad?”

And then I’m left alone.

“Oh… Okay.”

One of my favourite things is the piano. Yes, the piano. When the piano plays – that is when the magic happens. The piano is one of my favourite things. Behind the bench lies the kitchen in full view. Yes, this is when the magic happens.

But I shouldn’t play the piano to-day. I ought to do the laundry. I’ve been wearing the same dress all week.

The same fucking dress.

You fucking cunt.

I hope you rot, you fucking cunt.

The same fucking dress, you fucking little bitch.

“I think I’ll go bake some cookies.”

The sheet clatters on the oven shelf as I shove it in. The timer winds and begins to tick away the time. As the oven door’s shut, the stifling heat is suddenly shut off from my face and arms.

I wander back to the piano.

And I wait. Just waiting for the magic to happen.

Suddenly, I’m no longer alone in waiting for the magic.

“Hello Kitty. Would you like me to play you a song while the cookies are baking?”

“I saw what you did, Rosie.”

“What?”

“I saw what you did to the tulips.”

“I didn’t fucking do anything to those goddamn tulips!”

“But I saw you.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, you fucking cat! You stupid little ass!”

The magic comes. The magic comes in a tragic wave that’s quite displeasing to the ears. Never have I heard such dissonant magic in the air.

The bell in the time rings.

“Hello Rosie. How are you feeling to-day?”

No response.

“I tried playing the piano earlier to-day. I found your cat and some tulips inside of it.”

No response.

Shit. He knows. He knows everything. He’ll tell it all to everyone.

“Do you want to go bury him?”

“No!”

“How about some dinner?”

“No!”

The piano! The piano! Yes, this is when the magic happens. I can smell it when I lift the top open. It’s there. It’s there!

When I remove the stench, the magic can breathe.

“You shouldn’t have touched the tulips, Rosie.”

“I didn’t touch those goddamn tulips!”

“But I saw you. What will Mrs. Finch think?”

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything to those fucking tulips!”

“I saw you, Rosie. When Mrs. Finch sees her garden, she’ll know. She’ll know.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“But you did. You did.”

“Shut up!”

I grab the atrocity and hurl it across the room. The stench smacks against the wall and falls uselessly to the floor. It gets deathly quiet like the calm before a twister touches down as the stench lies limp.

“Rose, are you all right?”

Shit. He knows. He’ll tell everyone.

“How are you feeling?”

No response.

“Come sit with me at the piano.”

“Can you make the magic happen?”

“If you’d like.”

I sit.

“I saw Mrs. Finch today. She said, ‘Good morning Trent. Is Rosie doing well lately?’

“See, she asks about you.”

The magic is light. It drifts up to my ears in a playful tone. It makes me think of toy boxes and pretty little porcelain dolls. Little porcelain dolls in their little silk dresses. Their painted faces with rosy cheeks.

Their pretty little faces.

All covered in wretched make-up.

I hope it flakes off.

I’d like you to get cancer.

You’re a liar, goddamn you.

You’re a fucking liar, you stupid cunt.

“Were you listening to me Rosie?”

“Wha-what?”

“I said that Mrs. Finch is worried about you. She feels bad that the tulips are all gone. She knows you like the tulips.”

“I’d like you to get cancer.”

“That’s lovely.”

And then the magic fades.

“The tulips are dying Rosie. Let’s go put them in some water.”

“No!”

“I’ll get a vase for them. Would you like them in the kitchen? I know you like the kitchen.”

“No!”

Water erupts from the kitchen.

“They’d look lovely on the table.”

No response.

I quite like the kitchen. Lots of amazing things happen in the kitchen. From the kitchen window, Mrs. Finch walks by. Black clouds roll above her. She disappears behind the tulips before reappearing on the other side, still huddled over and gliding in the window.

I like the way the clouds move so swiftly in the sky. Always so dark and grey, threatening to rain down on us all. They threaten to rain down on all the tulips. But the tulips are gone. They’re gone. Gone. Gone. Sitting on the kitchen table between the counter and the window. Those pretty little tulips sitting on the kitchen.

The oven beeps once.

The timer ticks away.

The piano sits a few feet away. The magic doesn’t come from my fingers anymore.

No magic. No tulips. No nothing.

“Hello Rosie. Are you feeling well to-day?”

No response.

“Well, I’m going to go help Mrs. Finch with her garden. She bought some strawberry seeds to plant in place of the tulips. Don’t you think she’ll grow some lovely strawberries?”

No response.

“I’ll come back later. Good-by Rosie.”

The door shuts.

The oven beeps once. Twice.

I don’t flinch when the heat assaults my face and engulfs my head.

The bell in the timer rings.