Swirls of Frustrated Escapism

When a need becomes a thirsty desire. 

After a stream of murmurs, I sat there, waiting.

“What is a stream of murmurs?” I thought to myself.

It had been over an hour since my last cup of tea and my mouth was dry. If only I could make it to the kettle. I turned, the sharp corner of my desk bluntly slicing my arm.

“Can something blunt, slice?” I asked myself, the pain still throbbing.

I gave it a rub and, just like expectation on Christmas night, any sign of indentation in my skin had gone.

The kettle sat there. It was an inanimate object; I knew that. It had a look of wanton hope, regardless. I’d use the same cup. I would check the water level andthen, and only then would I decide whether or not I would fill it up again.

I stood up, my chair scraping across the wooden floor, making the sound of an elephant stifling a laugh as it did so. I ran my tongue on my lower lip; it was too much information.

As I walked to the kettle, I suddenly caught myself.

“My mug,” I thought, “I need my mug.”

I walked back to the desk where my mug was still sitting. Cold, lifeless, empty: it wanted filling.

Making the three steps to the kettle, I could see through slight condensation that the water level was enough. Enough for one. As long as a party of more than me didn’t come through that door, this would be ok.

I looked through the patio doors, out to the gate. It remained shut. The birds tweeted, the gravel undisturbed; nobody was coming to join me.

“Solitude uninvited is always preferable to company uninhibited”, I thought. Pointlessly. That didn’t even make sense. I needed to stop thinking and start doing.

I flicked the switch. The blue light shone brightly, evocatively bringing the purple surround of the kettle’s design to life. The water rocked. Silence.

Then… the sound of years of filtration being brought to a heat only the devil could know rose from within. Steam. Steam, like a cream dream, never stop rising.

The noise grew from a reluctant stirring to what only could be described as a violent execution of molecules that brought about a boil. It boiled. Water: wrestling with itself amongst the confines of plastic and metal. Bubbles that knew no way of escape but that would never cease in trying.

Fervent, aggressive, panicked, desperate, boiling water shook the very foundations of the kettle as it came to an almighty convulsion and then…

Click. It had boiled. The watery contents of the kettle rested within. Stillness. No more fighting. Settled. Its fate had been decided.

I placed the teabag in the cup, lifted the kettle and freed the wet contents. It ran, free yet without passion. My cup filled, my tea brewed.

I took the milk from the fridge. As the light lit my face, I noticed a Peppa Pig yoghurt, nestled in the corner.

“What fate awaits that?” I chose not to think.

I carefully placed the teaspoon upon the teabag and squeezed it against the sides. The affection it had longed for, cruelly strangulating its desire to help. All it wanted to do was make flavoursome tea. Its purpose served, it had no more to offer. Into the bin, I buried it. Farewell, teabag. Farewell.

The milk swirled into the reddish brew. Steam arose; yet not violently. Milk calmed the scene. A comforting, creamy peace came to light.

A cup of tea had been made. I listened. Birds tweeted. Gravel remained; undisturbed. A stream of murmurs could be heard. Or could they?

Then I sat down, had a Jaffa Cake and wrote this.

The End.

Al x