I’m a high-strung person. I wish I was the type of person that lets inconveniences and frustrations roll of their back, but in fact I am the kind of person who fixates on mistakes until they take up my entire brain. I have to pencil in time for self-care or I will forget that my brain and my body need time to rest and recuperate.
I’m also not a person with many vices. This is, in fact, probably why I’m so high-strung. Sometimes, the best cure for a bad day is chopping vegetables or slicing steak with my giant knife or pounding coriander to dust with a mallet. Destroying things to make them delicious is my specialty.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(a.) from Ancient Greek ἀγαθός , for good, and κακός, for bad.
Comprised of good and evil.
All her life, she’s been told she’s good. A good girl. A good daughter. Eventually, a good wife. If she wasn’t yet good, she must become good—“be good,” her mother said, smoothing tear-sticky bangs away from her face. It was a plea; if she was good, things would be easier for her.
But inside her, something else has taken root. Or perhaps it’s been growing all this time, fed with expectations and minor annoyances piling up like so much compost. She smacks chicken with a mallet, a smile on her face. Her knives are sharp, her wits sharper.