Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
The taste of betrayal
As I am still experiencing this moment under my psychic trance……
In the cluttered living room where Ms. Hardy and Eugene reside, a noise of laughter and shouts from half a dozen rambunctious children fills the air, abruptly silenced by a loud knock at the door. Everyone freezes. Their eyes dart to Eugene as he rises from the couch. With a calm demeanor, he strides over, unlocking and cautiously cracking open the door. The atmosphere tenses with anticipation.
Eugene swings the door open with a bland facial expression and eye roll. A tall middle-aged man steps through, his presence immediately marked by his work-stained one-piece uniform, old boots, unkept afro and dirty hands. Without hesitation, he walks to the kitchen, casually wipes his nose with the back of his hand before sharing a brief, affectionate kiss with Ms. Hardy, who attempts to clear her throat but only manages a hearty laugh in response to his entrance. He snatches a treat from a plate in the kitchen, leaving behind a noticeable smudge from his grimy fingers, offers a casual ‘hello’ to the room at large, and ambles toward the bedroom, treat in hand. The moment he disappears, the children’s uproar resumes, as if his brief passage through the room was merely a pause in their boisterous symphony.
Ms. Hardy turns her attention toward the red velvet cake, drawing Dr. Apples’ eager gaze. He grins broadly, his excitement matching that of the children gathered around. She grips the kitchen knife, slicing through the cake with precision, each piece falling away smoothly, as generous with the slices as with her hospitality. An uproar rises from the children, their excitement reaching a fever pitch, but for Dr. Apples, it’s as if they fade into the background. Seated on the couch, leaning slightly towards the kitchen, he watches Ms. Hardy approach with a slice on a white, chipped plate, anticipation written all over his face. For a moment, all of his hopes and dreams are encapsulated in this piece of cake.
“Here ya go, sugar,” Ms. Hardy says, offering him the plate. The surrounding cheers dim to a hush in Dr. Apples’ mind, the world narrowing to just him and the slice of cake before him. This moment, this plate in his hands, represents a point of sheer presence, a shared joy with Eugene and the other kids.
Fork in hand, Dr. Apples doesn’t hesitate. He scoops up a generous portion of the cake and brings it to his mouth, eager for the first taste. A look of utter disappointment washes over his face. “Well, this tastes like shit,” he mutters under his breath, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He’d never used that word before, not knowing he could express such a sentiment so naturally. He scans the room quickly, expecting stares or gasps of shock, but is met with no reaction, no acknowledgment -nothing. But as no one reacts, he realizes his comment must have remained a thought, unheard by the others.
The overcooked cake felt like a used sponge on his tongue, with the texture of leftover food caught in the holes and parts as brittle as dirt. Inhaling deeply, he’s greeted by the smell of tart cocoa mixed with the unmistakable scent of stale milk, ingredients that Ms. Hardy had evidently used in her baking. The sandy grit of the low-quality, starchy flour clashed with the overly sweet sugar, creating a confusing mixture of flavors in his mouth. With the gruel still in his mouth, he looked around, contemplating whether to spit it out or to swallow it.
—-As Dr. Apples apprehensively eyes the slice of red velvet cake on his plate, a young girl with icing smeared across her cheeks exclaims with unrestrained joy, “This is the best cake ever!” Her brother, equally messy and oblivious to the cake’s actual quality, sticks out his tongue, a dollop of cream cheese icing hanging from it, eliciting laughter from the others. Seated next to Eugene, he yells out, “Mama, this is the best cake ever!” Dr. Apples raises an eyebrow in confusion. The children all shout, “Thank you,” as Dr. Apples also chimes in at the “you,” trying to seem appreciative, yet his face still reads confused.
Meanwhile, Ms. Hardy returns to her kitchen domain, noticeably proud, strutting slightly to a tune only she can hear; oblivious to Dr. Apples’ internal struggle. “I told y’all I always make the best food. I told y’all!” she boasts, her voice resonating with a confidence that now seemed unfounded to Dr. Apples. In the kitchen, as Eugene and the other kids smack and chew their cake loudly, she moves on to her next culinary endeavor. Dr. Apples’ eyes flicker towards the cake, then away, as if by avoiding eye contact with the dessert, he might escape the inevitable. Eugene, ever the enthusiastic host, notices Dr. Apples’ hesitance and nudges his plate closer with a grin. “Hurry up and eat ya cake,” he urges.
Dr. Apples fidgets in his seat, wiping his hands on his pants as if trying to rid himself of the task ahead. With a glance towards Eugene, who eagerly awaits his reaction, Dr. Apples takes the smallest bite possible, barely letting the cake touch his tongue. He turns his head away from Eugene, takes the fork out of his mouth with the cake, and feigns an exaggerated chew, his eyes darting around in search of an escape from the inevitable taste.
In a moment of quick thinking, Dr. Apples decides on a course of action that might save him from another bite. With a subtle shift, he ‘accidentally’ nudges his fork off the edge of the plate. It clatters to the floor, a sound that seems to echo his internal relief. “Oh, clumsy me,” he murmurs, hoping this minor act of sabotage might buy him a moment’s reprieve. However, before he can even contemplate a more permanent escape plan, a kid, mouth still full of cake and cheeks bulging, scrambles to pick up the fallen utensil. “Here ya go,” the child says, offering the fork back to Dr. Apples with a sticky, cake-smeared hand.
“Thank you,” Dr. Apples replies, the somber tone of his voice clashing with the forced smile on his face. He accepts the fork, now a dubious lifeline back to the plate he so desperately wishes to avoid. As he holds the utensil, he can’t help but weigh his options: offend Ms. Hardy and Eugene by refusing the cake or brave the mysterious concoction that sits before him. The room’s anticipation is evident, and with a resigned sigh, he realizes that there’s no polite escape from this culinary quandary. The next steps, he knows, will require all the tact and diplomacy he can muster, sprinkled with a dash of humor to keep the mood light.
In a moment of quick thinking amidst the smacking, Dr. Apples devises a new plan —he cautiously grabs a hand sized portion of his slice, rolling it discreetly, squeezes it in his hand. The cake compresses into a surprisingly solid ball, its consistency now resembling a dense projectile.
Glancing around to ensure no one’s paying him too much mind, he spots the cat’s bed nestled in a quiet corner of the room, far removed from the munching and the chaos. With a stealthy flick of his wrist, Dr. Apples sends the cake-ball rolling across the floor, aiming for the safety of the cat’s sanctuary. The ball lands with a soft thud, coming to rest just at the edge of the bed.
The cat, previously disinterested in the afternoon’s events, perks up at the sudden intrusion into its space. With a lazy stretch and a curious sniff, it investigates the unexpected offering, pawing at the cake-ball with a mix of suspicion and intrigue. For a moment, it seems the cat will hit the ball back to Dr. Apples. But after a moment’s hesitation, the cat decides against engaging further with the mysterious object, opting instead to return to its nap, leaving the cake-ball untouched but successfully hidden from view.
—-Eugene, momentarily distracted by his meal, misses Dr. Apples’ subtle maneuver. Seizing a moment of relative peace, Dr. Apples allows himself a brief, victorious smile. However, his relief is short-lived as he realizes he isn’t entirely out of the woods yet. Most of his slice of cake remains, and it’s likely Eugene will soon notice his lack of enthusiasm.
“Enjoying the cake?” Eugene asks, turning back to Dr. Apples with a cheerful grin. Dr. Apples puffs up his cheeks with air as if savoring a mouthful and mumbles, “Absolutely,” his tone dripping with irony only he recognizes, “It’s... unique.” He pretends to swallow, then scans the room, planning his next move. His gaze lands on Ms. Hardy in the kitchen.
As Eugene’s mother preps dough to make a pie, her hips sway, strutting to an unknown tune in her head. Dr. Apples, still reeling from the flavor of the cake, can’t help but stare, a mix of offense and disbelief show on his face. She cracks a few eggs with a practiced hand, pours sugar into a bowl, and gives a slight sniffle, all the while moving her hips to the rhythm in her head.—-
In a moment that seems almost casual, she plunges her hands into the mixture, sniffles, wipes her index finger against her dress and, after a lazy attempt to clean it, shoves it up her nose.
Dr. Apples watches in horror as she seems to extract her very soul from the depths of her nostril. Yes, a booger—feel free to ‘clutch your pearls’.
It remains unclear whether she manages to clean her finger afterward, but without hesitation, Ms. Hardy places her hands back into the batter, her hips still swaying, to the unknown tune in her head.
Frozen in place, Dr. Apples scans the room with wide eyes, open mouth, silently inquiring if he is the sole witness to Ms. Hardy’s unseemly culinary performance. To his dismay, he isn’t. The other children sit around watching her, utterly mesmerized, their eyes sparkling as they continue to eat.
Is that what those clumps in the cake were? Indeed, the cake did have salty spots.
A wave of emotions crashes over him as his eye twitches a bit and the corners of his mouth turn downward, his eyes beginning to well with tears. With a mix of revulsion, disbelief, and an acute realization, words mustered out of his voice, “So…. they’re okay with this. They’re okay with this?”
Yes, this was okay. This was acceptable. It was the norm. They were content to live like this, whereas he would never be.
“How…simple,” he judged -and rightfully so. “They are Simple.”
Watching the Simples devour the rubbish given to them, Dr. Apples sat on the couch with a permanent frown. Now, how was he going to get out of here?