Dark Chocolate

“You’re going to die in here,” the slice of cake tells me.

It sits on a plastic blue plate atop my kitchen counter. I hadn’t bought the plate, mind you. Rather, I’d found it in the apartment when I moved in, evidently left behind by the previous tenant. It is the only plate I own.

I’m lying on my futon, staring up at the ceiling, desperately trying to ignore the voice coming from the kitchen as well as the rumbling coming from my stomach.

It’s been six months since the last time I left my apartment, five months since my last paycheck, one month since my bank account ran dry, three days since my last warm meal.

One week since the cake started talking.

“Hey,” the cake persists, its gravelly voice projecting a perversely mocking tone. “Hey pal. You seem down. Wanna hear a joke?”

No, no, no. I wrap my pillow around my head, covering my ears. The pillow stinks of sweat. What’s worse, it does nothing to prevent me from hearing the cake’s voice.

“How do you get a fat girl into bed? Piece of cake.”

I let go of the pillow and sigh. Begrudgingly, I look toward the kitchen. From where I’m lying, I can’t see the cake – only the many empty bottles of sports drink that litter my kitchen counter. I notice one bottle at the edge of the counter that is not quite empty. I run my tongue over my dry, cracked, lips.

I stand and sway on the spot. For one, heart-pounding moment I fear that I am going to pass out, that this is the end. But then, thankfully, I regain my footing.

“You’re going to die in here,” the cake tells me again.

Despite myself, I respond. “Shut up,” I say, and my voice comes out croaky and unrecognizable to me. I realize these are the first words I’ve said in weeks, perhaps months. I’ve had no one to talk to besides myself and this piece of cake, with whom I’ve been trying my best not to engage for fear of losing what little sanity I have left. Also, the cake is a bit of an asshole.

I stumble over to the counter and reach for the sports drink. As I do, the cake inevitably catches my eye. Two layers of rich, moist, dark chocolate flesh, separated by a layer of bronze frosting that extends out to cover the exterior surface of the cake. Despite having been left out on the counter for a long time, it still looks delicious – and that’s not just the starvation talking.

I take a swig of the sports drink and swish it around my parched mouth before swallowing, my eyes never leaving the cake. As of now, the slice remains a perfectly intact triangle, with not even a crumb askew. How has it stayed in such good condition? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. With the amount of preservatives they put in convenience store food these days, I bet this cake could last another week before going bad.

Wish I could say the same for myself.

Seeming to sense my thoughts, the cake chuckles. “S’matter?” it says. “You want a piece of me?” It cackles with laughter at this and I resist the urge to squish it underneath my fist.

This slice of cake, asshole though it may be, is the last scrap of food in my apartment. Having spent the remainder of my bank balance on a large delivery of dry, canned, and instant foods, I’d managed to keep myself fed for a good while without my having to leave the apartment. Perhaps my mistake had been ordering too much at once. It had given me the illusion of abundance and had stopped me from thinking about rationing my supplies until it was too late.

That order had arrived a month ago. I’d eaten my last packet of potato crisps over the course of the past three days. Now all that is left of the delivery is this slice of cake. At the time, I’d ordered it as a morale booster to get me through the tough times ahead. Now, it represents the last sliver of life that I have left.

On my kitchen counter, amidst the empty plastic bottles, there is a small pile of assorted cash and coins. Loose change that I’ve been collecting from various nooks and crannies in my apartment ever since the start of my self-induced isolation. 2,431 yen – not a fortune, but enough to buy another month’s worth of supplies, maybe even two months’ worth.

The only problem is that I’d have to go outside to spend it, making this pile of money pretty much useless.

The last time I’d tried to leave the apartment I was stood frozen at my front door for an indeterminable amount of time, my head filling with thoughts of the outside world. Inevitably thoughts had turned to doubts.

What if I bump into someone that I know? What if that cute convenience store worker is working? I can’t possibly let her see me like this. What would she think of me? Do I smell as bad as I think I do?

As these questions entered my mind, my breath began to quicken, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down.

I still have that packet of chips. Not to mention the talking cake. These will last me a while. Yes. Besides, that last cup ramen filled me up. I don’t need to go out just yet. There’s no reason to.

Convincing myself of this, I looked down at the doorknob and realized that the hand that was gripping it had turned white. Slowly, I released my grip, put my cash back on the kitchen counter, and wandered back to my futon to watch TV. The piece of cake had been laughing at me the whole time.

This had been three days ago, before my 7-chip-a-day diet had started, when I had considerably more strength. Now, I am thinner, more dishevelled, and I smell a fair bit worse. I know there is no way I can leave the apartment in my current state.

“Hey buddy,” the cake says. “What kind of cake can’t orphans eat?”

“What?” I ask out loud before I can catch myself.

“Homemade.”

I snort with laughter. Absolutely terrible. Also, I think I’ve lost my mind.

I look at the cake. There’s a clean fork next to the plate. Did I put it there? I honestly can’t remember.

My stomach rumbles. I lick my lips.

“Go on,” the cake jeers.

I pick up the fork. Just one bite.

I slide the fork through the flesh of the cake, half expecting it to scream. But it is silent. It is rich and muddy and my fork glides through effortlessly. Only a few crumbs fall from the cake’s surface onto the plate.

I hold the forkful of cake up to my nose and sniff it. It smells of chocolate, hazelnut, and the tiniest hint of espresso. I swallow saliva thickly.

I slowly place the fork into my mouth and close my lips around it. I close my eyes as the chocolate cake melts onto my tongue. As soon as it hits my taste buds, the divine sweetness spreads throughout my entire being. For the second time today, my legs threaten to give out on me and I have to hold onto the counter with my free hand to stay upright. However, upright I stay and as my eyes snap open and fixate on the slice of cake in front of me, I realize I cannot stop at one bite.

My fork violates the cake again and again as I gobble down mouthful after mouthful of the sweet dark chocolate, with the manic fervour of a madman. With every bite I feel my body reawaken, piece by piece, cell by cell. My mind opens up and it is as if a great fog is lifted and finally, for the first time in a long time, I am able to see clearly.

And then it is over. My fork reaches for more cake, but there is no more. My blue plate sits empty, save for a few crumbs. At first, my mind refuses to register the fact. But then, as the realization sinks in, my knees finally do buckle, not from exhaustion or shock, but from despair. I sit on the kitchen tiles with my back against the counter, hugging my knees close to my chest, one hand still clutching my fork. Hot tears begin to stream down my face.

The cake is gone. The only morsel of food left in my home. The only semblance of company in my lonely existence. The only hope I had of survival. Now I have no hope. In the end, the cake was right.

I am going to die in here.

“Come on, pal. Cheer up!”

The voice comes from behind me. No, not one voice, but a chorus of voices, tiny and high-pitched.

I move onto my knees and turn slowly. My eyes are level with the top of the kitchen counter. I look at the empty blue plate sitting atop the counter. Only it is not empty. There are about nine cake crumbs left on the plate.

“You can’t die in here,” the crumbs say in unison. They sound like a small group of children. “You have to go outside.”

“I can’t,” I croak.

“Yes, you can. There are so many things outside. Some things are scary, that’s true. But some things are wonderful. Flowers. Sunshine. The city lights.”

“There are people outside.”

“But people can give you wonderful things too. People can give you smiles. People can give you hugs. People can give you kindness.”

An image of the convenience store worker flashes across my mind. Her warm smile. It had always been a highlight.

“If you die in here, you’ll never get to see her again. You’ll miss out on so many wonderful things.”

I hesitate, still unconvinced.

“Outside,” the crumbs say in a lilting voice. “There is more cake.”

With a soft grunt, I raise myself to my feet, using the kitchen counter as a support. I am dimly aware of the tiny voices of the crumbs cheering me on as I stand, sweep up my money (all 2,431 yen of it), and stride purposefully to my front door. I slip my sandals on over my well-worn socks and grab hold of the doorknob. It is warm and I can feel the heat of summer on the other side of the door.

I breath slow, steady breaths as familiar doubts enter my mind. I become very aware of my atrocious appearance and my ripe aroma – a mixture of sweat and laundry that has not dried thoroughly. Despite my doubts, the crumbs continue to cheer me on from the kitchen.

I call out to them. “Hey guys,” I say, my voice sounding more human than it had earlier. “One more joke for the road?”

There is a pause. Then the crumbs tell me a joke. “A patient says to his doctor, “Doctor, I always get heartburn whenever I eat birthday cake.” The doctor tells the patient, “Next time, blow out the candles first.””

I smile and twist the doorknob. The door opens easily and quietly. Warm sunshine hits my face and I squint into its bright light. In front of me, on the other side of the road, I can see the convenience store, shimmering like an oasis. It doesn’t seem as far as it had in the past.

For the first time in six months, I take a step out of my apartment and close the door behind me. I begin my journey back into the world that I had left behind, thinking about what kinds of cake will be in stock at the convenience store.