Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 34

Something had to be done. Not about the levitating dust—Damon could handle that when he reported it to the authorities the following day. No, something had to be done about Damon himself. He was breaking down, and it was only a matter of time before he cracked like an overripe avocado.

He always claimed he had it under control, but I could see it in his eyes—the overwhelming chaos swirling around him like a tornado of bad decisions. Yet, he stubbornly resisted any offer of help. I suppose that’s what “a man” does, right?

As I got home this time solo—unlike the previous few days—I felt a mix of exhaustion and sheer ecstasy, the kind you get when you realize you’ve survived another chaotic day. The cloudburst that had threatened to drown us retreated faster than it had attacked, leaving me free to walk without the suffocating embrace of gloves and a scarf. The good part was that my body felt almost normal. That was if I could still recall what “normal” even felt like.

“Mom, I’m home!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the empty house, which was just my polite way of saying I was starving.

Silence responded. “Mom!” I called again, but again, nothing but silence greeted me. If a nuclear bomb dropped right now, I doubted she’d wake up from her beauty sleep.

All I wanted at that moment was for my legs to rest. But who was my mother? Just when I needed her to set the dining table with a feast fit for royalty, she was either absent or tucked away in her room, snuggled under a pile of blankets. She could sleep through an earthquake—maybe even a dinosaur stampede.

With a sigh that could rattle the kitchen cupboards, I got to my feet and shuffled toward the kitchen. Cooking was not my strong suit; in fact, if culinary skills were a sport, I’d be the last one picked for the team. If there was no food waiting for me, my only option was to brave the outside world and get myself some junk to eat. Just the thought of my aching legs making that journey sent shivers down my spine.

As I stepped into the kitchen, a faint aroma of toasted eggs wafted through the air. A small flicker of hope sparked within me. Could it be that my mother had actually cooked something? I just had to find it before the scent evaporated into thin air.

Please, let this not be a puzzle. I was dying here, and the thought of solving the mystery of toasted eggs was less than appealing. I opened a few cupboards, my heart racing at the prospect of uncovering a hidden treasure. But there was nothing but dust bunnies hiding from me.

That’s when a book on the counter caught my eye. Its faded brownish pages looked as if they had seen better days. Grandma’s recipe book. I’d been ignoring it, but now it was wide open, revealing a page that was suspiciously full of ingredients.

I leaned in closer, squinting at the words “growth hormone catalyst.” It took a moment for the implications to sink in. My mother was trying to whip up a dish to accelerate hormonal growth. Why on earth would she want to get any older than she already was? Maybe she thought she could win the upcoming cooking competition with some sort of miracle dish.

Some of the ingredients were already prepped: a diced tomato, a few energy flower petals, and dough that looked like it had gone through an existential crisis. Sitting next to an extra potato that seemed to be next on the chopping block was a knife, ominously leaking red at the tip.

Let’s be real: saying that all that red was from a tomato would be a complete lie. It certainly wasn’t potato juice or anything else I could think of. I braced myself, hoping against hope that it wasn’t what I feared it to be. I grabbed a towel and gingerly clasped the knife, steeling myself for what might come next.

With all hope on the roof that it wouldn't be what I thought it was, I brought it closer to my nose. Miraculously, the smell was strong enough to reach me from a distance. It was exactly what I had wished it wouldn’t be: blood. The metallic scent hit me like a freight train.

My heart clenched and shattered into a million pieces. The realization came crashing down: something had happened to my mother. I could almost hear her voice soothing me, but the grim reality clung to my thoughts. The knife was never shared, and if it ever had been, no one would return it dripping with blood.

Then, the scent of more blood wafted up to meet me. My sandals had seen more than my eyes had, leaving a trail of crimson leading outside the kitchen.

In a state of heightened awareness, I followed the trail, each step a scream of danger echoing in my mind. The urge to turn back gnawed at me like a ravenous beast.

I was not going to let Ya in. Even though optimism was in short supply at the moment, I had to investigate the trail leading to my mother’s bedroom. After all, I could have stumbled upon an injured animal in the kitchen and decided to play doctor, or maybe I’d found the reddest fruit and gotten a little too enthusiastic with my knife skills. But none of it added up. There was something utterly wrong here.