She treads on the laminate like a sasquatch, clack-clack clack-clack, as if she was born with no knees. Who wears clog-types on hard wood floors, clack-clack clack-clack heard through the tissue-thin walls. The cupboards bang intermittently and muted animal to human convertsation is heard against the backdrop of a cascading shake of flakes into an empty ceramic cereal bowl.
The butter hisses as bacon, sausages and black pudding drown in hot fat, drenching and soaking up the gas-fire top-up of suntan. Shrinking, spitting, attempting kamikaze missions out of the pan as each number squeals It’s too hot. Cutlery tinkles on the granite, clack-clack clack-clack as she walks to the fridge, probably for the organic milk. Ikea chair legs scrape against the hardness of the floor, the pan continues to sizzle-sizzle.
An indistinct male voice, yetti-like, mumbles Yes, please as black peppercorns are ground over the frying pan and an egg cracks like a whip on the edge of the already strong asylum, the yellow yolk joins the same fried fate.
Bronzed bread pops up from the toaster and smeared with golden I can’t believe it’s not butter but oh my god it really is, and browned crumbs dance happily as they sprinkle across the breakfast plate. They are the only escapees in this canny ballistic scene.
The sound of tin-foil unwrapping adds to the cacophony of normality, the sizzling ceases. Yetti shrieks in a pleased moment of satisfaction, cupboard doors slam one final time for anticipating consummation. The fork stabs hot fodder with frisson on the large white plate, the knife scrapes against the same whilst death is shred into palpable, palatable portions. Mmm, he nods.
The television hums in the background with the shrill voices of the kids from The Simpsons, silent observation engrosses separate worlds, and dulled chuckles escape between mouthfuls of beastly obese repeats.