The gooey mixture runs down my hand.
My eyes trace it.
After our unsuccessful trip to Wiltmow Street, Flame and I decided to relax a little by baking a cake.
Which, may I may I mention, was also unsuccessful.
Flame emptied a whole pack of baking soda and I broke the oven.
Now were standing, hands dirty, hair ruffled, and smeared aprons.
'Well, that didn't go well.'
'You're telling me'
We both thought that we could manage, since we were both turning 18. But I guess we need to slow down.
A lot.
My mom always kicked me out of the kitchen when I asked if I could help her.
Now I can totally understand the reason. I know why.
Maybe too much.
Flame's parents were out of the house, along with my mother who adores Flame's mother.
Ew.
Mother friendships are so lame. Blargh. They talk about our education and the recent sales and all that.
The image in my brain slowly burns away. I was hoping for a fantastic blueberry cake with flower icing on it.
Look what it turned out.
An attempt to make a cake looks like an attempt to ransack the kitchen.
I sigh loudly. I'm done.
Completely.
A hand reaches up to stroke my back.
'C'mon. Lets go play Fifa.'
Eyes still glued to the broken oven, I slowly nod my head.
'Uh Flame?'
'Yeah?'
'You...uh.......you know any good excuses?'
YOU ARE READING
Change
FantasyIt's not people or weapons that's going to kill you. It's yourself. It's your memory. It's your mind. Memories exist. But you don't. You're just a figment of your own imagination. That means....... You're not real. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>...
