#iwishtowrite

I can't tell if it's from the idea of breaking the rules, or the stifling heat that is suffocating me. Either way, I'm perspiring and I have to concentrate to get the air in and out of my lungs. The room is dark, and the house is silent. There are no cars, no neighbors, nothing. I know I'm not dreaming because I can feel my back sticking to the leather of the small sleeping mat. My digital watch emits a quiet, electronic meep signifying 1:37 AM. It is time.

The darkness surrounds me right now

I can feel it slip past my hands

I cannot see through this veil

I am always imprisoned

The distant sound of someone rummaging around in the kitchen reached my ears before the smell did. Danger was near. All at the once the pungent and sharp smell was released from the kitchen as the door swung open. The scent moved swiftly and deliberately, searching for its prey.

It struck with a vengeance, freezing all my muscles. It was the highly unmistakable odor of homemade poison. My brain whirred, forming all the possible situations and ruling out the improbable. One particular scene made me pause. Maybe the poison wasn't meant for me.

I had begun to sweat, because then again, maybe the poison was for me. I wiped my perspiration on the back of my hand in a feeble attempt to lower my body temperature. Feasible situations of the next few minutes flew through my mind. No. I was wasting my energy, I had to calm down. There was a 1-in-9.2 quintillion chance that I wouldn't succumb to death in the coming minutes. My breathing slowed.

My hopes crashed down to the depths of the underworld as the clear voice called my name, so sweet it was almost sickly.

I stood up, swaying back and forth. My bed looked all to comfy, but the repercussions for missing the call were much worse than the punishment itself. The door creaked as I pushed it open, and the floor seemed to move beneath my shuffling feet. Each step towards the kitchen was like a prisoner marching towards their noose. My execution was near.

I entered the kitchen, and the executioner stood by the stove. The poison was finished and sat on a ceramic white plate in the Executioner's hands.

The wooden chair squealed in protest as I collapsed into it. I almost squealed in protest as the plate was set down before me, causing a loud clang that resounded around the small, tiled room. The executioner looked at me with dark eyes, unreadable and a harbinger of death.

The cold metal of the fork was a sign that this was very much reality. I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat...

I felt the tips of the fork stab through the poison, and I hesitantly brought it towards my mouth. I held it there for a moment, my mind at work, considering the odds of escaping my now imminent death. Sauces dripped from the chunk of poison and onto the plate making a soft plip noise as I held the fork mere centimeters from my mouth. It took all my concentration to open my mouth and place the poison inside.

The fleshy morsel landed on my tongue, its heavy and vile taste seeping into my taste buds. I braced myself and attempted to swallow. I felt the piece of food move towards the back of my throat and felt it start to go down.

All of a sudden the lump in my throat stopped. My esophagus began furiously trying to oust the mouthful of poison. I held in the coughs and the hacks, offended the executioner would only spell trouble for me. Tears formed in my eyes as I once again tried to swallow the poison. It was so bad.

My mind and my throat battled ferociously for dominance. My mind trying to accept my death and my throat denying passageway. It seemed to go on forever. The executioner was watching me, her eyes searching my face for any clues of my thoughts. I wouldn't give them to her.

Finally, I forced the morsel down to the point of no return. I felt it travel down the remaining length of my esophagus and into my stomach. My vision blurred around the edges. Which way was up and which way was down I did not know. My head was pounding, my skull ready to explode. My lungs were on fire. short and shallow breaths came in and out as I tried to force myself to breathe deeply. I felt myself fading from consciousness.

No.

 “Cyril, get up here!”

Cyril groaned, and paused his video game. “What?!” Cyril yelled over the paused menu screen music. Cyril waited but heard nothing, “I said what!” Cyril again waited for a moment. He sighed, and hit the center button on his game controller, resuming the game.

The sounds of shots and screams played through the speakers, echoing through the unfinished basement. The smell of pizza wafted down the stairs from the pizzeria that was run on the ground floor of the establishment. Cyril shifted his body weight on the torn up, leather couch as the game's difficulty increased.

“Cyril!!”

Cyril slammed the pause button, “WHAT?!”

“Oh, my gosh! You don't have to yell! I just need you to run counter.” The voice called down the stairs. Cyril stared at the still screen, his azure eyes tinted with violet staring back at him.

“I didn't yell the first two times and you didn't hear me!” Cyril finally yelled back, resuming his game.

“What did you say? I can't hear you!”

“Never mind!” Cyril said, clearly annoyed. He paused the game again, before climbing off the couch and climbing the wooden stairs. He opened the door into the pizzeria.

Cyril visibly flinched when he saw all the people. He stayed close to the wall, and made his way to the counter. He slipped behind the forest green counter, and slipped on an apron that said “Tomatito's Pizzeria!” in curly yellow letter. His mom waved to him from a table where she was serving food.

Cyril sighed and went towards the cash register.

“Hello and welcome to Tomatito's. My name is Cyril and how may I help you.” The last statement was monotone, more of a script than an actual question. Because in all actuality, Cyril had absolutely no desire to help the girl standing in front of him.

“Table for 1.” The girl said.

“Please follow me.” Cyril said, grabbing a menu. He led the girl through the restaurant to a table in a secluded corner. He pulled out the wobbly, wooden chair. The girl smiled a thank you before sitting down. “Here's your menu. I recommend the Italia Margarita Pizza. It comes with basil, mozzarella and marinara sauce. Vanielle over there is your waiter, and she'll be here to take of you soon.”

Cyril nodded politely to the girl before turning around and returning to the green counter. “I hate people.”

Cyril continued to direct various customers for a while until the lunch rush slowed. Finally, Cyril stood, bored, leaning on one arm at the green counter. The girl from before came up to the counter, holding her bill.

Cyril took the bill and began entering numbers on the cash register. “That'll be $14.58 for your total.”

The girl nodded, and withdrew a $20 bill form her wallet, and handed it to Cyril. Their hands brushed, and Cyril froze. A familiar electric shock ran up his arm, and through his body. He lingered for a moment, scanning her body with his eyes. He looked at her wrist, and found what he was loooking for. A silver bracelet made of several thin strands that had been woven together to form an intricate braid. Cyril looked back up, his eyes flicking to her cerulean orbs that had a hint of a lilac hue. The magician's eye. Cyril opened his mouth, his voice quiet and unsure.

 It's biting, but not frigid, as the gusts of wind continue to dance across my skin, but I was too absorbed in the sunrise to notice.