I Made A Bloody Mess In The Kitchen Sink Novels & Stories

In the kitchen, safely out of earshot, I lean over the sink and throw my guts up. At length, head banging, I've nothing left to puke with; so, running water around the basin, I fill a glass, rinsing my mouth, spitting out the foul taste. And then another, this time gulping it down. Then, soaking a paper towel, I wipe over my face; hot skin and cold, stinking sweat. Leaning forward, I rest my hands on the counter for a few moments while I gather myself, then straightening up, turn and...

“The sink. It was cracked.” “What sink?” I turned to face him again. “The one in the bathroom where she was throwing up. It was cracked.” "As I speak the words out loud, I realize how ridiculous I sound. “Never mind. It must have been like that before.” Ricky is silent, and I leave.

My gaze flickers around, and that’s when I really take in the disaster I’ve made. The counters are covered in flour, stray vegetable peels, and sauce splatters. A pile of used utensils clutters the sink, and the stove looks like it’s been through a battle. Somehow, there’s rice on the floor. How did rice even get there? Shit. I spend two exhausting hours cooking and another full hour trying—desperately trying—to clean up the mess. By the time I’m done, the kitchen looks somewhat presentable, though I know he’ll notice something is off. He notices everything.

To make things worse, I threw up in the heated pan. I fell to the floor, my hand accidentally pulling the pan's handle. The pan crashed on me, spilling my own vomit on my body. My scream echoed through the mansion before I got up immediately, turning off the stove and making my way up the stairs. This was a disaster, a fucking disaster! I cleaned myself up and changed my clothes to a high-quality material evening skirt and a crop top. I then went to clean the kitchen. I dumped all the milk into the trash, realizing they were all expired.

The boiled water spits from the pot, splashing water onto the tiled floor. "Shit!" I hop off the counter and turn it off, moving the pot to the other side of the stove. The handle breaks as I lift it and the pot clatters on the floor, spilling hot water and soggy pasta everywhere. "Dammit!" I drop my phone onto my kitchen table, grab towels and begin cleaning up the mess. I scoop up the pasta and throw it into the sink, leaving the towels on the floor to soak up the water. I wait for the pot to cool down before throwing it into the trash.

The dishes in the sink rattled. "Please, Daddy," Toby begged. "Harder!" I gave him what he wanted. I slammed into his prostate, over and over. "Come!" Toby screamed into his arm. His ass milked me, pulling me in deep. He came all over the kitchen table, adding to the mess. I followed him a second later. I buried myself deep and added another load to the mix. We stood there, panting, leaning over the table. The water in the bathroom shut off.

Then leaves a note like a tip on the nightstand. I stumbled to the bathroom, turned the shower to scalding, and stood under it until my skin turned red. I scrubbed him off me, between my legs, on my neck, the bite marks on my shoulder until I was raw. Didn’t help. I could still feel him with every step. When I came back downstairs, wrapped in the same towel from yesterday like nothing had changed, I saw the kitchen. Plates still broken on the floor. Bacon grease congealed in the pan. The cake box on the counter, one lonely slice missing.

After a moment of hesitation, he carefully removed it, wincing in pain. As he made his way to the kitchen to wash the blood off his hands, he couldn't shake off the feeling of dread. Turning on the tap, he started to clean his wound, but the water quickly turned into a thin stream and eventually stopped. Fidgeting with the knob, he tried to get the water flowing again, only to see a thick stream of blood gushing from the tap. Horror-struck, he pulled his hand back as the sink began to fill with blood, spilling onto the floor.

They hand their pictures or the pictures of family members or a loved one hanging on the walls or used as mantel pieces. It seemed weird to her. She walked to an adjourning door. It led to the kitchen. She stepped into the kitchen space. She could tell because the window had been left open thus allowing light to stream into the cramped space. There was absolutely nothing to see there… Except… Except the sink. The steel sink overflowed with brown murky water and half eaten tins of food. With the tins of food, were several knives, covered in brown stains. And, the water reeked. A lot.

I had been dreadfully hungry, but still. I picked up the tray and stomped to the kitchen. He'd cooked alright. There was a dirty pot sitting in the sink along with some used plates. A sad looking, half split carrot sat alone on the counter and the gas top was peppered with bits and crumbs of food particles and grease. I headed straight for the sink and without allowing myself to think further about it, I pushed the pot to the side and turned the bowl down the drain. The broth sank slowly down, leaving the pieces of chicken and vegetables sullenly stuck to the surface.