Condiment
I dried my hands on the paper towel with the inked-in quilt work patterns, wiping each of my fingers carefully and then depositing it. Except I had rushed through my thumbs, leaving them damp and cold. I rubbed them with my other, dry fingers, in resentment. Out of nowhere, a glob of catsup fell between my middle and ring finger. I winced visibly. It was red-a bright, caustic red. The kind of red that made you think it would be cancerous, if it could be, and it made you worry that maybe catsup really was cancerous.

I tried to push this thought out of my mind as I slowly, painfully brought my now no-longer-benign knuckles to my mouth. I tried not to think about how much I despised catsup, the tangy, sickening flavour overwhelming my senses. I tried to ignore my protruding gagging; I tried to focus on getting the catsup on the middle, back part of my tongue, where the taste would be less recognisable. But all I could think about was that sweet, tangy, cancerous goo, slowly writhing down my throat, into my stomach, enveloping everything, slowly killing me from the inside out.

And then, I was puking. Projectile vomiting, everywhere, over everything. All over that fat, greasy, balding man with the glistening, steaming hot dog in his hand, drenched in the cancerous red filth. On the linoleum flooring with the colourless 70's floral design, all over the barren beige walls, all over my freshly-washed hands. Everywhere.

And the worst part is, it was all red.
back to writing.
Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

1