Cooking for myself

The journey back home is suffocatingly quiet, each passing moment only amplifying the weight of humiliation that hangs heavy on my shoulders. I feel raw, exposed, as if every eye I pass can see through the facade I'm struggling to maintain. The betrayal cuts deep, Louise's swift condemnation echoing in my mind like a relentless drumbeat of injustice.

As soon as we arrive home, I don't even bother with pleasantries. I rush up to my room, seeking solace in the sanctuary of my own space. Collapsing onto my bed, the floodgates of emotion burst open, tears streaming down my cheeks unchecked. It's a bitter pill to swallow, this sense of powerlessness in the face of unfounded accusation.

Louise's refusal to even entertain the possibility of my innocence stings the most. It's a betrayal on a fundamental level, a rejection of trust and understanding that cuts me to the core. How could she, my own guardian, not even try to listen?

I bury my face in a cushion, seeking refuge from the harsh reality of the world outside. Exhaustion washes over me like a tidal wave, pulling me into the embrace of sleep despite the turmoil raging within.

When I awaken, the room is bathed in darkness, the only illumination filtering in through the thin curtains. I glance at the clock and realize it must be around 8 o'clock already.

With a heavy sigh, I peel off my uniform, the fabric feeling like a suffocating reminder of the day's events. A hot shower offers temporary respite, the steam soothing my frayed nerves even as the events of the day continue to replay in my mind.

Dressed in fresh clothes, I make my way downstairs to the dining room, hoping for some semblance of normalcy to cling to. But as I enter, the sight that greets me is anything but comforting. The table sits empty, devoid of the warmth and comfort of a home-cooked meal.

"Why isn't there any food?" I ask the servant, my stomach growling in protest at the sudden realization of my hunger.

The servant's expression is one of sympathy, tinged with reluctance. "It was Louise who instructed us. She said this was your punishment, and that you wouldn't be having anything to eat this evening," she explains softly, her words like a dagger to my already wounded pride.

I feel a surge of frustration rising within me, tempered by a stubborn resolve not to let Louise's petty punishment break me. Swallowing my pride, I turn away from the empty table, determination set in my heart.

"If I can't have something already made, I'll just have to cook," I mutter to myself, the words a vow to reclaim control over my own destiny.

With newfound determination, I make my way to the kitchen, though the prospect of cooking is daunting. I've never been much of a chef, and the idea of preparing a meal from scratch feels like an insurmountable challenge.

But I refuse to be defeated. Ignoring the doubts whispering in the back of my mind, I roll up my sleeves and set to work, determined to prove that I am more than just a pawn in someone else's game.

As I stand in the kitchen, surrounded by ingredients but utterly clueless about what to make, my frustration mounts. I scan the shelves and counters, my eyes darting from one item to the next in search of inspiration. But nothing jumps out at me, and I'm left feeling more lost than ever.

Then, like a beacon of hope amidst the chaos, I spot a book resting on the table. Its title catches my eye: "How to learn to cook for losers." Written by Leora Cromwell, the former demon queen. A curious choice for a cookbook, but I'm in no position to be picky.

"It seems to me she was human," I murmur to myself as I flip through the pages. "But hey, this book will be perfect for me, who doesn't know how to cook."

With newfound determination, I settle into a chair and begin reading from the first page. "How to make an omelette with rice." Well, it's a start.

I quickly set about gathering the necessary ingredients, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of finally creating something edible. The rice goes into a pot, and soon it's bubbling away on the stove, filling the kitchen with a comforting aroma.

"Now, all I have to do is prepare the omelette," I declare, feeling a sense of accomplishment already.

But then comes the challenge of finding the eggs. They're perched high on a shelf, seemingly taunting me with their inaccessibility. Determined not to be thwarted, I devise a plan involving stacking chairs to reach them.

After some trial and error, I manage to retrieve the eggs and return to my task with renewed determination. With the ingredients gathered, I set to work, following the recipe's instructions as closely as possible.

I crack the eggs into a bowl, adding salt and pepper with a flourish. Then, with practiced hands, I heat the frying pan and pour in the mixture, watching as it sizzles and bubbles, transforming into a golden omelette.

Thirty minutes later, the meal is ready, and I can hardly believe my eyes as I admire my handiwork. The omelette looks delicious, and I can't wait to taste it.

With a satisfied smile, I take my first bite, savoring the flavors as they burst on my tongue. "That's great," I exclaim, surprised by my own success. "I'd better cook more often."

After washing the dishes and tidying up the kitchen, I make my way upstairs to my room. As I settle into bed, exhaustion washes over me, but not before one final thought crosses my mind.

"I hope tomorrow everything goes better in class," I whisper to myself, the events of the day still fresh in my mind. With that, I drift off to sleep, hopeful for a brighter tomorrow.