Powercut

The lights went out, and all that I could see was illuminated by the faint green glow of a security light. I had a roast chicken in the oven, which was only half cooked. I was hungry and in distress, and I cursed the day I was born. The fridge suggested that I should be patient; there was heat enough in the oven and the chicken may yet cook.

I felt the door of the oven. It was warm, but that was the end of it. I stood up straight and listened to the horrible silence of the world. I considered the superfluous nature of my endeavours, past and present; it’s only when we are alone in a dimly lit green florescent darkness that we can take a moment to face up to the terrible magnitude of our own despair.

‘For what avails it then that I have fried onions sautéed, and vegetables microwaved, with boiled rice and a sauce ready prepared? My chicken, my roast, the heart for which my other foods would make a home, will never be carved and served and complemented by cheap wine. For fault of this weak and saucy oven, I cannot hope to dine.’

They all listened to me. The boiler sighed and clicked in an exasperated manner, making it perfectly clear that all my melodrama was poor form. I noticed with annoyance that there was a general murmur of agreement from the direction of the cupboards directly below him, and some of the members of the spice rack let loose derisive chuckles. They were a heartless crowd, without culture, without the appreciation of philosophy and art; everything they talked about was stupid and meaningless, particularly the cutlery, who were obsessed with football. I’ve lost count of the number of times that the knife with the serrated edge has cornered me and vomited nonsense about how Torres just isn’t the player he used to be.

Enraged, I plucked up the biscuit jar as if to smash it, but then remembered myself and put it down, a gesture which awarded me hysterical laughter. More furious than before I kicked the oven and berated it for causing all of this. For a long while, as the laughter peaked and then began to die into exhausted sighs, the oven maintained a dignified silence. I waited expectantly, until at the last it chose to make reply:

 

When I was young and took no care

In what I said or did,                   I ate a meal of taste so good

It should have been forbid.

I had it at a restaurant

One bright and sunny day,

And finished it in record time;                                       I ate without delay.

 

When finished, I was restless and

I heard the outdoors call!

I asked my leave and turned to go,

But then I had a fall.

I heard a crash of broken glass

And felt the waiters glare,

For now upon the floor there were

His dishes everywhere.

I did not move, I could not speak

Fear blossomed in my heart.

I was led away while mother made

Excuses on my part.

So hear my words and save yourself

From such a situation;

Take heed from this, the oven’s tale

To help your education.

 

 I couldn’t really understand the relevance of the Oven’s tale, but for politeness sake I nodded and smiled, pretending that I understood where it was coming from. The security light glowed a constant, acidic green, giving me just enough light to see the shadows which filled the kitchen.

It was at that time that I knew my life needed some change, some new direction to take me as far away from this place and this feeling. I suffered emotions that I couldn’t name or explain. Something was terribly wrong, wrong as if I were ill, and yet I knew that I could live like this forever; maddening as slowly as a chicken cooks in a warm oven, my own oven that insane void where future happiness was impossible, and past sorrows stalked me through the dark house like insidious spectres in a pale green light.