409 in Your Coffeemaker, chapter 1
The sun was shining through Mary Maloney's bedroom curtains as her alarm started beeping loudly. She tapped the off button. The whole house was warm and clean, and Mrs. Maloney could smell breakfast being cooked downstairs. She got up, and slowly put on her dressing gown and slippers. As she walked down the carpeted stairs, her feet making soft, tired thuds, she wondered why Patricia was up this early. She normally made breakfast for her daughter. As she walked into the kitchen, her feet making a sort of sticky sound on the linoleum floor, her husband asked her, "One egg, or two?"
Mary froze. Trembling, she spun 'round on her toes and looked at where her husband was standing. Although, it did not matter how badly she wanted him to be there, he was not and he could never be. He was dead, murdered. "NOT ANOTHER ONE," Mary thought to herself. She had been having visions like this ever since Patricia was born. She sat down at the kitchen table, put her head in her hands, and cried in silence. The delicious, delectable breakfast smell had disappeared. She heard bouncy footsteps coming downstairs so she quickly wiped her face of tears and stood up.
"Good morning, darling." Mary said brightly to her daughter.
"Morning, mom," replied Patricia, "What's for breakfast?"
"Your favourite," answered Mary, "Chocolate chip pancakes."
Mary collected her ingredients from the fridge and then the cupboard. She put them on the kitchen table and began to make the batter as she watched her daughter reading a book out of the corner of her eye. The more she watched Patricia the less she concentrated on the batter. In fact, she concentrated so little on the batter that she whisked too hard and it went flying.
"Oh no!" Mary screamed at the top of her voice, tears forming in her eyes like little raindrops about to fall from the sky. Patricia put down her book, and started to help her mother clean up.
"How about toast mom? ...Or pop tarts?" Patricia said, smiling broadly at her tearful mother.
"Sure, whatever you want," replied mary.
Mary left her daughter in the kitchen and went upstairs to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the large, wooden framed mirror and just stared. She turned the chrome cold water tap. She collected some of the liquid in her hands and splashed it on her face. She looked up. She whispered to her reflection, "I NEED HELP."
*
"Hello, is that True Therapy?" Mary was on the phone inquiring about therapy sessions she felt she desperately needed. Patricia was at school and had no idea about what her mother was going through. The murder, the death.
"Oh, you've got a therapist ready for this afternoon?" Mary replied, "That's wonderful, thank you. Goodbye." And that was it. Mary felt hundreds of times better just for asking for help. Help she wanted, help she needed. The therapist would be at Mary's home at two o'clock that afternoon so she had just enough time to clean the living room and put a comb through her hair. She had twenty minutes. She went into the living room and began to organize the videos back into the cupboard. DONE THAT. NOW FOR THE RUG, HOW ON EARTH DID IT END UP LIKE THAT? She straightened it up so it was in between the two large comfortable chairs and then she repalced the coffee table into its original position. THERE, THAT'S BETTER. She combed her hair neatly and placed the comb back onto the mantelpiece. There was a knock at the door. Slowly, nervously, she went to the door and opened it.
"Don't forget to tell her about how you murdered me, Mary," said her husband, Patrick.
Shaking, frightened, confused, she slammed the door. "THIS IS WHY I NEED HELP," she thought. There was another knock, this time louder than before. Mary looked up at the door.
"Mrs. Maloney?" said a muffled woman's voice, "It's me, Mary, your therapist. Are you okay?"
Mary got up and walked over to the door. She let in her therapist, who explaiend her name was Imogen, and showed her to the living room. The two of them spoke for a while and Mary explained about her visions. But she had not yet told Imogen about the murder she had commited, the murder of her husband. At around three o'clock, Patricia came home from school and entered the living room after knocking first. Patricia said hello to Imogen then kissed her mother and went into the kitchen to make her mother a coffee and Imogen an earl grey tea. She changed the filter in the coffeemaker, refilled the water, and pressed the on button. When Patricia had left the living room she had left the door ajar. She could hear everything. Everything. She heard her mother telling Imogen her secret. Her past, her crime, the murder. Patricia grew angry. She scrambled around underneath the sink. YES... THAT WILL WORK. She carefully poured a capful of the liquid into the coffeemaker, and then poured her mother a cup. She put the tea and the coffee onto the tray, picked up the tray, walked down the hall into the living room, put the tray down onto the coffee table, and handed her mother her coffee. She watched her mother put the drink to her lips and left the room. Patricia heard her mother choking and coughing violently, unable to breathe. And in the other room Patricia Maloney began to giggle.
Mary froze. Trembling, she spun 'round on her toes and looked at where her husband was standing. Although, it did not matter how badly she wanted him to be there, he was not and he could never be. He was dead, murdered. "NOT ANOTHER ONE," Mary thought to herself. She had been having visions like this ever since Patricia was born. She sat down at the kitchen table, put her head in her hands, and cried in silence. The delicious, delectable breakfast smell had disappeared. She heard bouncy footsteps coming downstairs so she quickly wiped her face of tears and stood up.
"Good morning, darling." Mary said brightly to her daughter.
"Morning, mom," replied Patricia, "What's for breakfast?"
"Your favourite," answered Mary, "Chocolate chip pancakes."
Mary collected her ingredients from the fridge and then the cupboard. She put them on the kitchen table and began to make the batter as she watched her daughter reading a book out of the corner of her eye. The more she watched Patricia the less she concentrated on the batter. In fact, she concentrated so little on the batter that she whisked too hard and it went flying.
"Oh no!" Mary screamed at the top of her voice, tears forming in her eyes like little raindrops about to fall from the sky. Patricia put down her book, and started to help her mother clean up.
"How about toast mom? ...Or pop tarts?" Patricia said, smiling broadly at her tearful mother.
"Sure, whatever you want," replied mary.
Mary left her daughter in the kitchen and went upstairs to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the large, wooden framed mirror and just stared. She turned the chrome cold water tap. She collected some of the liquid in her hands and splashed it on her face. She looked up. She whispered to her reflection, "I NEED HELP."
*
"Hello, is that True Therapy?" Mary was on the phone inquiring about therapy sessions she felt she desperately needed. Patricia was at school and had no idea about what her mother was going through. The murder, the death.
"Oh, you've got a therapist ready for this afternoon?" Mary replied, "That's wonderful, thank you. Goodbye." And that was it. Mary felt hundreds of times better just for asking for help. Help she wanted, help she needed. The therapist would be at Mary's home at two o'clock that afternoon so she had just enough time to clean the living room and put a comb through her hair. She had twenty minutes. She went into the living room and began to organize the videos back into the cupboard. DONE THAT. NOW FOR THE RUG, HOW ON EARTH DID IT END UP LIKE THAT? She straightened it up so it was in between the two large comfortable chairs and then she repalced the coffee table into its original position. THERE, THAT'S BETTER. She combed her hair neatly and placed the comb back onto the mantelpiece. There was a knock at the door. Slowly, nervously, she went to the door and opened it.
"Don't forget to tell her about how you murdered me, Mary," said her husband, Patrick.
Shaking, frightened, confused, she slammed the door. "THIS IS WHY I NEED HELP," she thought. There was another knock, this time louder than before. Mary looked up at the door.
"Mrs. Maloney?" said a muffled woman's voice, "It's me, Mary, your therapist. Are you okay?"
Mary got up and walked over to the door. She let in her therapist, who explaiend her name was Imogen, and showed her to the living room. The two of them spoke for a while and Mary explained about her visions. But she had not yet told Imogen about the murder she had commited, the murder of her husband. At around three o'clock, Patricia came home from school and entered the living room after knocking first. Patricia said hello to Imogen then kissed her mother and went into the kitchen to make her mother a coffee and Imogen an earl grey tea. She changed the filter in the coffeemaker, refilled the water, and pressed the on button. When Patricia had left the living room she had left the door ajar. She could hear everything. Everything. She heard her mother telling Imogen her secret. Her past, her crime, the murder. Patricia grew angry. She scrambled around underneath the sink. YES... THAT WILL WORK. She carefully poured a capful of the liquid into the coffeemaker, and then poured her mother a cup. She put the tea and the coffee onto the tray, picked up the tray, walked down the hall into the living room, put the tray down onto the coffee table, and handed her mother her coffee. She watched her mother put the drink to her lips and left the room. Patricia heard her mother choking and coughing violently, unable to breathe. And in the other room Patricia Maloney began to giggle.
