Written for the prompt 'Cooking' for Nanami Week.
Contents: Canon-typical violence, drama, suspense.
Synopsis: A different perspective on Nanami's encounter with the girl from the bakery, and the curse that afflicts her.
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor
Welcome and entertain them all!
even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably,
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
~ The Guest House, by Jalaluddin Rumi (translated)
Malice can creep beneath the front door at 2 am.
It can linger in the hallway, tasting the air.
It can move, on feet made of finest-spun shadow, to the airy environs of the living room and take another moment to revel.
Here is her coffee cup, where she abandoned it before bed, the distance to the kitchen sink too great to consider. Here is her hair tie, a few strands of hair caught in the small metal clasp.
Here are her clothes discarded right beside the hamper, the scents of baking bread, chocolate cream and the faint underlying note of perspiration, wafting gently out to what comes crawling by.
Malice doesn't take much note of the girl in the neighbouring apartment. That girl is a student, and her stresses are wholly different.
No, Malice prefers this one.
She is a prime candidate, with her easy, warm smile, the way she takes on task after task in order to see the bakery run smoothly, the way she stays later than others on weekdays and takes extra shifts to make ends meet.
So much hope. So easily crushed.
A fine meal indeed.
Malice finds her, where she sleeps like the dead, hair spread out across her pillow, like the dark cloud of shattered dreams it arrived here on.
Her arm is flung above her head, bent at the elbow, but that doesn't stop Malice from snaking towards her sleeping face, hissing in low triumph.
When the girl wakes to the sound of her alarm just before daybreak, she feels much the same.
There is no trace of her night-time visitor, apart from a certain heaviness that lies on her shoulders, a constant downward tug on the corners of her mouth, a pall that hangs over her mood.
She tries not to acknowledge it, to turn a blind eye.
Things always improve, don't they?
Malice knows better.
It's a simple and shallow curse, but its always chosen its victims well.
"Good morning! How may I assist?"
The words ring out, cheerful and confident in the small shop. The bell over the door chimes with charming alacrity whenever a new customer enters.
She is behind the counter today, and the thing hidden like smoke in the shell of her ear stirs, awakening.
Nobody can see it, of course. Nobody can see curses, besides a rare few. And this particular curse feels confident that there is no danger here today.
Sliding from its hiding place, it goes to work.
It never learns her name. It doesn't intend to.
She is Girl and it is Malice.
Girl is very upbeat today. She chirps greetings and offers bright smiles, hums softly as she opens and closes the display cases to remove a cake here, or a croissant there. She clacks the metal tongs together in an unknown rhythm, to a song that plays out only in her head.
Malice knows what she dreamt of last night.
There was a train journey, and endless one into the dark, the destination unclear. When Dream Girl finally alighted through the doors, onto the shadowy platform, she had no idea where she was and had no money or phone in her pockets.
The dream had been a swift one, but Malice knew what it signified.
Girl is uncertain, lost, afraid of what the future may hold. And she hides it well.
The bell over the door chimes again, and Malice threads tendrils of its form into the flesh of her ear. It whispers to her in a voice that she cannot hear through regular means.
Today is just like yesterday. What a bore.
As the customer, a man in overalls, places his order, Girl's smile falters for just a second before she hitches it firmly back into place.
"Would you like a coffee with that?"
For a few weeks, Malice kept its presence imperceptible. Girl's state of mind was on the edge of being vulnerable, but not quite. More work was needed to get her to that point.
Malice would occasionally feed Girl stray thoughts, like it had on that first day. Nothing too overt, of course. Nothing that would make it seem like the thought hadn't originated from her.
On one particular day, she was on kitchen duty, a renewed verve in her actions. She'd clocked in half an hour early and began to prep, bobbing her head to the faint music emanating from the small radio in the corner.
Malice watched her with something like amusement.
This was the part that was especially delicious to witness. The slow erosion of will and happiness, the bloom of dark flowers beneath the eyes, the shadow of the person you were going to become looming in the wings, waiting to usurp your presence in the world.
Girl was oblivious, of course. She went about her duties, probably assuming that today would be a touch better than the week prior.
Who had the time to dwell on dreams of trains with no destination when there was dough to be mixed and left to rise, batches of croissants to be folded and shaped, flavoured cream fillings for doughnuts to be whipped and piped and today's specials to be chalked out on a small board in fancy cursive script?
When her break came around, Girl took the opportunity to slip out the back, passing through the short alley where the waste was discarded for collection, and out into a small courtyard facing the embankment.
A series of benches lay in wait, fairly empty at this time of day. The lunchtime rush was over.
Girls seated herself on one of these benches, pulling a wrapped sandwich from her pocket. She placed it in her lap and stared at it for a moment, before peeling away the plastic and taking a small bite.
Malice recognised the sandwich as one of Girl's contributions to the menu, one she had meticulously researched and spent a lot of time crafting.
Girl closed her eyes, a small crease gathering between her brows. She chewed for a minute longer, taking in the flavours, before shaking her head.
"Too much garlic in the butter," she muttered, and proceeded to eat the rest of the sandwich with quick, efficient bites.
Malice considered that incident for a while, from its perch within the dark strands of hair curling around Girl's ear.
Even with all the uncertainty and pressure to build a meaningful future, Girl still took the time to improve things, to pay attention to detail.
Malice would eat that little trait right out of her mind.
Week by week, Malice made progress.
Words slipped like the finest needle beneath the skin, the drip-drip of coffee through a filter laced with poisonous longing.
Why aren't they ever on time? I'm always here early.
Can't my weekend be free for once?
Can't cover the repairs to my bike, not with this month's rent going up.
That new place is opening up across the road. There'll be less people coming in at lunch time today ...
Malice learned to mimic the voice in Girl's mind, so much so that they were now indistinguishable.
Little pebbles, tossed so lightly, the ripples that spread alerting something just below the water, something larger, something ravenous.
When Girl went to sleep each night, she tossed and turned. She began to drink soothing teas in the evenings, taking longer baths to ease the tension that crept into her limbs.
Malice watched.
Malice waited.
One day, he came to the bakery.
The bell over the entrance chimed, as was customary. The steady stream of salarymen that always arrived at around this time disguised his form at first.
He had the same tired eyes, the same downtrodden air, the same listless, dour set of the mouth that so many others had.
It was when he arrived at the counter, however, that Girl straightened slightly, her gaze growing more alert and appraising.
She was steadily taking in his tall stature, the strangely broad shoulders and upright posture, in spite of the fact that he must spend all day seated in front of a flickering screen.
She took in the gaunt cheeks, the perfectly parted hair, the pinstripe suit that seemed deliberately chosen to mask his presence in a crowd.
She must have seen something different about him, because she adopted an earnest expression and took up a position at the till, greeting him with more than her usual cheer.
"Good day! How may I help?"
He barely glanced at her.
"The casse-croûte, please."
He'd chosen her special sandwich. The one she'd spent hours perfecting. She beamed back at him, something he took no notice of at all.
"Right away! Anything to drink?"
"A coffee. Black."
She bundled up his order, face shining with renewed determination. Handing his food and drink over to him, she offered him a pleasant farewell, which he didn't reply to.
It made very little dent in her cheer.
Malice took note of the improvement in her mood, but didn't attach any special significance to it at that time.
Humans were strange creatures.
On a diet of stress, fatigue, resentment and monotony, Malice grew steadily stronger.
Girl had experienced a recent streak of misfortune. Her mother had fallen ill, and she'd received a call from the clinic where her parents lived in the countryside.
This month would be tight financially, what with her having to pay for her mother's medical treatment along with covering rent.
Malice knew it was only a matter of time before it would be able to gain the upper hand. Already, its form was becoming more corporeal, after a fashion.
From a wisp of greater darkness, it grew a body, a tail and two bulbous eyes that swiveled on stalks.
Girl could not see it, of course, but its presence was felt.
Each morning she would rise and wince at the additional strain on her shoulder, swiveling and stretching her arm to gain a relief that never materialised.
She tried pain relievers, anti-inflammatories, herbal ointments, but the steady pressure only seemed to grow.
In spite of all of this, she seemed more driven at work than ever. It was the one thing that caused a slight sense of unease in the shadowy being that now accompanied her everywhere.
That salaryman.
He was coming in every day now, and the more Girl refined her sandwich, the more he seemed to purchase it. No matter how bleak her day had been, her eyes always grew brighter and her smile more genuine when he arrived and unfailingly ordered the casse-croûte and coffee.
On one particular day, she'd seemed to gather a little more courage and asked him if he liked the sandwich.
For the first time, he looked straight at her, those listless hazel eyes suddenly taking on a sharper aspect. His focus was a little unnerving, and if Malice didn't know any better, it would have said that Salaryman's gaze flicked briefly to where it coiled on Girl's shoulder.
"The convenience store that I used to buy them from doesn't make them any more."
His voice is deep, laden with a certain authoritative note, strangely pleasant for a man who looks like this.
The richness of tone gives the impression that he'd once spoken with less clipped formality, before the crushing weight of the corporate world shaved down the edges of him, until the bare, bleached bones remained.
Girl looks pleased with his answer, obviously taking pride in the fact that even a man as hardened as this has appreciation for the food she prepares.
"Well, we definitely make it better. You won't find flavours like these in a convenience store."
The laser intensity of his stare shifts away from her again as he removes his wallet from his pocket.
"Well, you are a bakery. It's only natural that you'd make the sandwich better."
"Ah ... give us some credit, please."
She laughs, slightly shamefaced, but her determination flares all the brighter when he leaves.
After work, she stays longer to perfect the herb blend for the butter, uses a different knife to gain even finer slices of cold meat.
Malice doesn't like what it sees, but it doesn't matter either way. No salaryman can save her from the culmination of its designs.
All humans fall.
Malice starts to push against Girl's will with more force, sometimes robbing her of choices and exerting otherworldly energy to drive her off course.
Girl hadn't been the one to add excess milk to the cake batter, but she was blamed for it. She hadn't been the one to burn three batches of croissants, but nobody else had been noticed near the ovens. She hadn't touched the trays of mochi and filled doughnuts, but something had dragged them to the floor right after she'd passed by.
After the last kitchen calamity, the day manager had relegated her to till duty, a sudden switch that had never occurred in the entire duration of her time working at the bakery.
She'd been extremely upset of course, taking a hurried bathroom break to shed a few tears, but she'd wiped them away soon enough and made her way to the till, somehow producing that bright and eager smile even after the kind of morning she'd had.
For once, Malice felt rage spike within it.
Why was she so damnably resilient? Why would she not fold and break, like countless others had, to lesser curses?
Malice had chosen her as an easy victim, one who would quickly succumb to the myriad small despairs of her life. How was she still so optimistic? What did she have to look forward to, in this meaningless monotony of existence, where each day was a means to prolong survival and stave off the next crisis?
Just then, the bell over the door tinkled, and Salaryman came in.
He looked like death warmed over.
The dark smudges beneath each eye were more pronounced than ever, and the pallor of his sunken cheeks was almost frightening. Even with exhaustion so evident in every movement, his gaze still held that unsettling quality; sharp-edged, analytical, almost wary in the way it swept across Girl and the goods on display behind the counter.
She looked him over with clear concern.
"Are you all right? It doesn't seem like you've been sleeping at all."
He didn't move, but he was now examining her closely, in a way that made Malice stir in discomfort. Salaryman countered her question with one of his own.
"What about you? You don't look very well yourself. Have you been resting?"
Her eyes widened, surprised that he'd caught onto that fact. She'd done a fairly good job of hiding her own fatigue and pain from her colleagues and associates at the bakery.
"Ah ... it's nothing really. I've just not been sleeping very well. And my shoulder ... it's been giving me trouble."
"I see."
"Well, enough about me! Would you like your usual order?"
Once again, Salaryman ignored her question. He seemed oddly focused today, even in his current state.
After an awkward pause, he looked up at her again. This time his voice was softer, more contemplative. He spoke as if continuing a conversation nobody else had been party to.
"That's the funny thing about our respective jobs. Your job is to provide bread, an essential service. You provide sustenance for the people who come to this bakery. I ... I on the other hand, take the wealth of rich people and make them richer. It's ironic, isn't it, that my job is paid better than yours?"
Girl stared back at him, dumbfounded. She grasped at words that seemed to escape her without thought, an attempt to lighten the mood he had suddenly set.
"Eh? Are you ... bragging?"
"Not at all. I'm suggesting that if I were to disappear tomorrow, nobody would care. My existence as a salaryman is wholly useless to anyone else. I'm completely replaceable. You, on the other hand, would be missed for the unique service you offer."
Her expression had turned more serious now, and she leaned forward earnestly.
"Please don't say that. I don't know you very well, Mister ... "
"Nanami."
"Mister Nanami. Yes. I don't know you well, but please know that you'll always be a valued customer at this bakery. I'll keep making these sandwiches, and try to make them better each time, so you'll always have something to look forward to."
Oh? Was this a goodbye from the Salaryman? It certainly sounded like it.
Malice uncoiled from its position around Girl's shoulders, teeth bared in triumph.
Maybe he'd never come back.
Maybe he'd lost the will to carry on with his own meaningless existence.
Maybe he'd even lost the will to live. What a blow that would be to her!
Salaryman was still staring straight at Girl, eyes lambent as a leopard in the dusk before night sets in.
"Excuse me, but will you please step forward?"
"Eh?"
In spite of her confusion, Girl complied.
Malice bobbed its head, watching with glee.
Maybe he'd shake her hand and thank her for all those sandwiches.
Maybe he'd bow to her and leave this shop for good.
Maybe he'd -
Salaryman raised his hand, the edge of his palm suddenly bathed in a terribly familiar energy, a brilliant flame that flooded his veins and burned brighter than florescent lighting.
Malice barely had time to register the horror of what it was seeing.
A sorcerer? Here? But he looked like an ordinary salary-
The hand came down like a blade.
Life resumed its usual rhythm, the appearance of the strange, taciturn salaryman slowly ebbing away, into the sepia tint of memory.
She'd never forgotten him, though. She'd always remembered the first time she'd seen him, standing at the back of the queue, his dark suit blending in with the shelves.
Even though it had seemed he'd made an effort to look as unassuming as possible, he'd stood out to her.
He'd looked so lonely.
Even though he'd guarded himself so well within glass walls that allowed the fingers of others to slip and slide away from the core of his true self, she's still seen something of what he'd buried within; a desire for some kind of connection, like a child reaching out a hand in a dark room, hoping that someone, anyone, would take it.
She'd done what her instinct had ordered. She'd reached out to him, the only way she'd known how.
Through her food.
And time marched inexorably forward.
Malice died, as quickly as it had been born, leaving only a faint scar on the mind, but other things remained.
The casse-croûte stayed on the menu of the small bakery, by the insistence of its newly promoted day manager.
Mister Nanami, the salaryman, never did return, but she made sure that the sandwich was always available.
Just in case.
