Broken- And Fixed Again- (A Jamilton Fanfic)

Chapter 20: Stress-Baking (part 2)

//TW: rape, manipulation, abuse, swearing, thoughts of suicide, thoughts of self-harm, thoughts of murder\\

Thomas

The welcoming aroma of baked goods drifted through the air, a pleasant scent that anyone could enjoy. I could practically taste the soft chocolate cake melting in my mouth, the sweet flavor of the icing combined with the spongy texture of the cake.

I worked diligently, fingers gliding over the bowl as I tried everything I could think of to lose myself in the process. I let the scents, the feelings, the rush of that pure, pure bliss consume my soul, desperate for the escape that such a routine provided. The warmth of the oven cascading down my skin as I checked on the cake, the gentle droll of the music in the background, overseeing and supervising my work, the gratification that came with watching my beater mix the powdered sugar and the butter together to form the frosting.

I love baking. It's a science. It's exact. There's no room for mistakes, for things that should not exist. If it isn't perfect, you throw it out, you start again. You try and you try and you try and if you're lucky, if you've done exactly what you are supposed to do and followed the recipe exactly as it was presented, you never have to fear the repercussions because none exist.

It smelled delectable, like innocence bathed in sugar and chocolate and frosting. My mouth watered as I worked away, pulling the cake out of the oven and closing the door as loudly as I could, delighting in the way the loud bang echoed through the enclosed room. I let out a relaxed sigh as I set the cake down on the table, searching for inconsistencies, searching for any holes or gaps that would give me reason to start again and pour my love and time into something else, something new. But the cake was, relatively at least, perfect, and I was content enough with that.

The song drifted through the air, its quality slightly marred by the absence of any sort of speaker, but I was delighted just to hum along to the upbeat melody that I must have known by heart. I don't quite remember what it was, some obscure tune from the 60's, I think. But all I knew was the happiness it brought me as I stood in the middle of my tiny kitchenette, the cake on the countertop before me, listening to that beautiful sound and drowning out the rest of the world in the tiny little haven I secured for myself. It wasn't much, but it was mine. It was my escape from the world, from the troubles pressing inwards and inwards and taking until there was nothing left for them to take. It would have to be enough for now.

I was hit with memories of my childhood, mostly my father teaching me how to bake. I smiled at the thought, then pushed it away before it could develop into something awful, like most memories of my father did.

God, what I wouldn't give to go back in time. To have a chance to relish in those memories as I made them, to take a few moments to enjoy the world I was being given and take joy in the pleasure that they brought me. There was something so disillusioning about being an adult, about abandoning the joys of childhood in favor of a grim, gritty reality. What ever made me want to leave it all behind?

And now, look at me. Trapped between four, narrow walls that seem to get closer and closer as the days go on. Drowning underneath a sea of dirt, its weight perpetually pressing down on me. My arms burn with the cuts of the days that run past, my mind is constantly filled with the thoughts and the nightmares of what he had done so easily, so willingly. Not a day goes by where I am not bruised and battered and beaten, but what is worse? That,
or being forced to recall times where at one point, everything had once been better. Gone is the freedom, the unfurled wings and open sky of my youth. Now, I have nothing left but the memories and the daydreams that fade the second they are placed under scrutiny of the sun, the second they are forced to endure hard, cold reality.