Cinnamon Rolls

Abbie's cinnamon rolls are a hit with the homeless. But there's a dark twist behind her kindness.

“…this is the fifth death this month,” the news anchor of the morning show read the headlines in a fast fashion and moved forward to the other, more important news, namely the new political scandal. Abbie was standing near the kitchen counter, pouring herself a hot, strong cup of coffee to start her morning. She still felt sleepy; after all, last night’s work had been pretty tiresome. It had been a Sunday, and she had finished all the preparations of her cinnamon rolls to be distributed to the homeless down her street, only to see the heavy snowfalls and an accident down the road resulting in a curfew.

She yawned as she watched the snow falling outside from her window. Today she would make up for yesterday’s loss.

She smirked as she tied her apron around her waist, ensuring it covered her clothes completely. She hated making a mess, and the gloves she wore were an added measure to keep things clean. After all, cleanliness was next to godliness, or so they said.

Abbie gathered her ingredients meticulously, placing them on the counter in a precise order: flour, sugar, yeast, milk, butter, and, of course, cinnamon. She also had a small, inconspicuous jar labelled "castor beans" tucked discreetly at the back of the counter. Her eyes flickered towards it with a glint of malice.

She began by warming the milk to just the right temperature, not too hot, just enough to wake the yeast from its dormant state. As she waited for the milk to warm, she crushed the yeast with the back of a spoon, watching as it dissolved into the warm liquid, a vital part of the recipe.

With deliberate care, she combined the flour and sugar in a large mixing bowl, her hands moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times before. She poured the milk and yeast mixture into the bowl, stirring until the ingredients began to form a sticky dough.

Next came the butter, softened to perfection, which she added to the dough, kneading it with firm, controlled motions. The dough began to smooth out under her touch, transforming into a soft, pliable mass. She left it to rise in a warm spot, covering it with a clean cloth, and turned her attention to the filling.

She mixed brown sugar and cinnamon together, the smell wafting through the kitchen, filling it with a warm, inviting aroma. Abbie smiled as she prepared the filling, but her mind was on the jar of castor beans. She reached for it, opening the lid and extracting a small, innocent-looking handful of seeds. She placed them into a mortar and began to crush them with the pestle, the rhythmic grinding sound echoing in the quiet kitchen.

As she ground the seeds, she couldn't help but marvel at their potency. She always liked how these little beans could create a deadly poison, giving someone a slow death, and still not be found in the blood sample. And that is if anyone decided to take a sample at all. Nobody cares enough for some homeless guy; everyone assumes the cold took them.

The seeds were soon a fine powder, and she carefully folded them into the cinnamon-sugar mixture. It wouldn’t take much, just a hint, to make sure her cinnamon rolls were unforgettable.

When the dough had doubled in size, Abbie rolled it out on the counter, spreading it into a perfect rectangle. She brushed it with melted butter and then sprinkled the cinnamon-sugar-castor bean mixture evenly across the surface. She worked quickly, rolling the dough into a tight log and slicing it into even pieces. Each slice was placed onto a baking tray, the swirls of cinnamon and sugar promising a delightful treat.

As the rolls baked in the oven, the kitchen filled with their tantalizing scent. Abbie cleaned up meticulously, washing her hands and the counter with a care that bordered on obsession. She smiled to herself, imagining the unsuspecting faces of those who would soon taste her special recipe.

The timer rang, and she pulled the golden-brown rolls from the oven, their surfaces glistening with melted sugar. They looked perfect, innocent, and inviting. Abbie allowed them to cool before packing them neatly into boxes, each tied with a festive ribbon.

Today, she would make up for yesterday’s loss. Today, she would share her cinnamon rolls with the world, one deadly bite at a time.