In a grimdark nook, where light would be afraid to shine, a man bent a black branch of a tree. With miasma and the Snake trying to get him, he knew he had to hurry. He saw the distant light outside the blackened land he had chosen for his death.
A twig snapped under his feet, and he heard the hiss of the Snake. He turned back, seeing it slither in haste, ready to bite him again. He did not remember when he had been bitten the last time.
The Snake didn’t want his blood, nor did it have any poison to kill him with. It was just happy to torture him; it would follow him until the end. But the man didn’t walk to the Land of Light: if he did, perhaps the Snake would follow him.
That was a risk he couldn’t afford.
He was sure there would be heavenly choirs and golden water in the Land of Light. But he would rather die alone than spread the curse of the Snake.
And so, he fell on the ground, tears in his eyes. He clutched the darkened, dry terrain. As the dust started choking him, he wheezed a scream.
...
As I wake up, it feels as though my chest has been kicked by an invisible force. My heart is racing, and it’s almost like I've been holding my breath all night. I struggle to catch my breath, panting and pressing down on my chest tightly. I sit up on the bed and lean against the wooden wall for support.
Suddenly, something tickles my cheek. When I bring my hand up to touch it, I realize that I'm crying – it’s a mix of dry, sticky tears and fresh, salty ones.
As I try to steady my breathing and calm my racing heart, the memories of my nightmare come flooding back to me. I can't shake the feeling of terror and anxiety that it has left me with. I try to remember how many times I have had this nightmare already, but it feels like it has been a constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember.
“Dammit. Dammit. DAMMIT!” I furiously scratch my itching head, rocking back and forth.
Why is that damn Snake still in my dreams?! Why?!
It takes a good fifteen minutes before I manage to calm down, but the nails scratching my head are slightly bloodied now.
I look at my hand and rub it on the inside of my clothes, trying not to think about what just happened. I stare listlessly in front of me, briefly checking the time and noting it’s barely past midday.
Do you know that sensation when you sleep in a place that is not familiar, and every time you wake up, there’s that slight discomfort? If you crank that to eleven, then you will understand how I’m feeling right now.
I look at the book resting on the table. The tome has not shown any signs of life since I told Lucinda that I wouldn’t pursue magic anymore.
I have always known I wasn’t suited to be a doctor—much less a [Mage], honestly. But no [Baker] levels? Why? Why is this happening to me? Out of all the people this could happen to, why is it specifically me?
Is this goddamn world screwing with me and saying I’m not a baker?
I sigh dejectedly, looking around to find something to keep my mind occupied. You can’t imagine how bad it is when your mobile phone is taken from you. Or a book—wait.
Where is The Idiot? Damn, did I leave that on the subway? No? Wait. Do I...
I get up and approach my suit, putting a hand in the pocket of the jacket. I take out my house keys and my wallet.
Right.
I ignore the jiggling pieces of metal and slowly unfurl my wallet. It was a hobby of mine to try and make it as big as George Costanza’s with pictures of the best moments of my life.
I had completely forgotten about it.
I feel more tears trying to come out of my eyes.
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Why couldn’t my memory help every once in a damn while?!
I take out the picture from my high-school graduation—it’s me, still a kid, and my mother. She’s not a great beauty, which really makes you wonder where I got all these looks, right?
I gaze at the picture of a younger mother than the one I remember. The plasticized photo has thankfully retained all its color. I move back to the bed with the wallet and continue to stare at the picture of my mother, smiling at the memory of her. Her hair is a shade of brown with red highlights - at least, that's what I think it’s called. I remember her always bragging to her friends about how much she spent on her hair.
Before I started working, my parents lived off the earnings from their small restaurant. It wasn't anything fancy, but they made sure I never wanted for anything.
We were doing pretty well by the time I graduated high school, although we weren't exactly rich. Still, we were better off than most of the kids who went to public school.
My parents, bless their souls, were Italian. And that meant that private schools were only an option if you were a spoiled wuss. I once tried to explain to them that a private school would have perhaps had more resources for me. My father almost ripped one of my ears off that day; he told me that if I needed resources, I could just make them myself.
Unreasonable, sure. But I like to think that he meant to say something very stoic—if you don’t have something, obtain it for yourself. Don’t wait until someone hands it out to you.
Was it likely that a man working from 6 AM to 11 PM meant something like that? Not really. I think he was just frustrated. Do I love my parents any less for it? Not really.
I think they loved me as much as they possibly could. Even though my father gave me a lot of grief, I think it was only because he wanted the best for me. He had a very precise vision of what happiness should have been for me; he just tried to enforce that vision. He didn’t listen to what I wanted.
But being American-Italian meant that I was still loved way more than what most kids would expect. My father was no tiger mom. He would shout at me and tell me I was wasting my life—then, he would regret it and buy tickets to a basketball game when he had some money to spare. Or he would just ask me if I wanted to shoot hoops with him while grumbling something—I still suspect it was my mother who threw him out of the house to shoot hoops with me when he was dead tired from work.
God bless him.
God bless them both.
He was short. Like, really short. He was shorter than my mother—what a player. My mother wasn’t a supermodel, but my father’s baldness often haunts me at night.
I used to have a Turkish clinic for hair transplants on speed dial. I told my mother that if I ever saw one hint of baldness on my head, I’d charter a private jet and be in the clinic within twelve hours of noticing.
As I sit on the bed, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I join my hands together, crossing my legs as I hold the picture just an inch from me.
"Hey, ma'," I say, hoping that she is listening. "Last time, I tried talking to you without actually speaking. Let's try something different this time. You know, I just realized that maybe Italians are so loud because, with the Pope there and everything, they might be trying to be heard up in heaven. Also, I hope there's no St. Peter on the other line listening in; this might get a bit grimy."
I take a deep breath before continuing. "See, ma', I kind of lost my temper today. Flaminia, a co-worker of mine, asked me to tell everyone that she's a better baker than me and to apologize publicly after I had made fun of her. Now, I know you might say something like, 'She's a woman; you should just say yes to everything – they don't understand what men have to do.' But I really think I made a mistake. Maybe I could have handled the situation differently. Perhaps I could have avoided that outburst."
"I don't know, ma'. I'm starting to regret it. That's all. What would you have told me, huh? Something about apologies being important? You would have called Flaminia names, I think. And then you would have asked me to hand in my resignation after a whole lot of drama. But ma', I don't want to do that. And now, I'm worried that whatever I might do will end up exactly like that. Even if I win the bake-off – which I'm going to, obviously – wouldn't that make fixing the relationship impossible?"
I pause, biting my lip, before continuing my prayer to the picture.
"What if they kick me out, and what if, once they kick me out, they tell everyone that I was nasty? What if no one in Amorium will ever hire me again, ma'? I mean, I could just tell them I'm giving up on the challenge. I don't mind giving up my share of the bread or whatever. It's just money. But people? People are hard to come by. So, what if my pride as a baker has to take a hit? I'm not a [Baker], anyway..."
“Wouldn’t it just be better if I gave up? I know, ma’, I know. But I don’t want to start over. Clodia is actually quite nice. And Flaminia, before all this mess, treated me very fairly. She helped me out with clothes and everything. Why should I ruin it all just because of stupid pride, right?”
I lower my head to stare at the space between my legs, feeling the weight of the world crushing me. My anxiety is spiking up to levels that I have very rarely felt before.
“I’m not a [Baker],” I whisper, this time with a half-broken voice.
But what I don’t notice is another picture slowly sliding out of my wallet. It’s me with one of my favorite people in the whole world. The picture is coming out as if pulled by magic.
And suddenly, I feel a huge hand landing a massive slap across my face.
“Testa di cazzo[1], do you hear yourself? A [Baker]?! Who cares about being a [Baker]? Is that what I’ve taught you?!”
“Jesus—” I raise my eyes to meet the familiar voice and get extremely freaked out. “Lorenzo?!”
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[1] Italian for ‘dickhead’ = testa, ‘head,’ cazzo, ‘dick’