I woke up with a sigh, unsure of yesterday afternoons previous events. I remember me suffer with yet another therapist, but not what set off the bomb. I smell bacon, nearly ready. I look at the time on my phone, 11am. Sunday. I creep down the stairs, not in the mood for conversation with the bitch, as per usual. I see three rashers slide into a fresh cob and quickly swerve past and grab, silently.
"It's not yours." I hear the cow whisper under her breath.
I dash my eyes across the kitchen searching for mine, it's not in sight. I'm to reluctant to get too angry.
"Where's mine?" I say sharply, my eyes glancing into hers.
"I didn't make you one son. I didn't know you was up." She impulsively steps back a pace. "Sorry."
I pick up the lone cob, complete with sesame seeds. I throw it across the kitchen floor, harshly slamming against the skirting board. I walk quickly over, and stamp on it with my turquoise slipper. A strange spongey feeling crushes against my sole.
"It's not yours." I say with a tinge of sarcasm, and a smirk lit across my face.
