From the furnace to the dinner table.

Part one of a short story. More to come as the time goes by.

What I wanted to do from the beginning was to keep you safe. 

Take you with me on those warm nights for short walks.

Sample the foods at the local grocery store. 

Simple things, but only to stay at ease. 

You allowed me in, and so I decided to remain in your welcome. 

 

I was always hungry, you never cared. Good, I always thought. 

Feeding me, but what for? Who could care less?

 

Moments at the sight of you blissfully moving about in front of the stove reminded me that everything was alright. 

Painstakingly stirring, baking, frying...Singing. 

I felt you were right at home. 

Nothing could move you out of sheer focus. 

 

Do you remember when I called for you while you were in the middle of pulling the pie out of the oven?

Damn near startled you.

You dropped it, all while screaming a short shrill followed by a slew of profanity. I rushed over and saw that you were holding your hand.

You burned yourself. You were so upset I swore you were on the verge of crying. I ran over to the cupboard and grabbed the salve and began rubbing it over your burn. You grew quiet for that brief moment. Slowly looking up at me you said softly, "what about the pie?" "Screw the pie, we'll finish the snack cakes." I replied.

 

I know why you jumped. 

One could say that the damage has been done but the results will forever remain. 

 

All I ever wanted to do was to keep you safe, to never allow anyone to harm you.

 I know why you love to cook, a way to get away, as we all say. 

For whatever reason you decided at that time that I was the one for you, it was beyond me. 

From that point on I had decided to leave you to yourself, I would not bother you while you were in the kitchen in such a state of peace. 

 

"There's just something about her that stands out."

 

You told me once...

"Never again ball your fist when you're close to me...Ever..."

 

Out of the kitchen you interacted with the world as if it had abducted you. Constantly squirming and gasping for air.

What if my woman had baggage that didn't belong at her feet? Like a neglected bag in a bus station.

 

I always wanted you to tell me what was bothering you. You never did.

The only time I would ever see you happy was in the kitchen.

And so I thought, maybe it would be best to leave her that way...

Author's Note

I tell this to all of my critics, grab your minions. Snarl, growl for all I care. Dissect and destroy everything if nothing tickles your fancy. As always my intentions are to learn and become better at what I know.

Reviews

[DaughterNature]

I think I like where this is going, but there are some suggestions I can make. Your speaker's voice is fairly strong, but there are still a few moments where it feels like I am reading a writer rather than a character. Also, formatting: a lot of the way you structured this feels and looks like you're trying to write a poem -- are you? Or is this prose? Also, a few minor punctuation things. But I do love the analogy about the baggage. I would like to see what happens next.