Brownies
The myth of the Broken Man has been told thousands of times, so let me tell you something new.
Each person that tells a story about The Broken Man does not tell their own, but one that they have heard that they had heard that they had heard etc. etc. everyone puts their own spin on it, adds their own details and takes creative liberties. I am here to clear away the rumours and fantasies for I have met the Broken Man.
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Surprisingly this story revolves around brownies. I had this desire to make brownies for the longest time, I think it’s a universal desire at one point in one's life however I'd never baked. So, I bought the ingredients, got everything prepared and began my first attempt. It was extremely unsuccessful, but my determination persisted. I bought new ingredients, double checked the recipe and baked once more. On my tenth bake and third day of making unspeakable horrors, I collapsed on the sofa and released the tears that I had been holding back. It was stupid. I was crying over nothing, over brownies. However, my tears kept falling and falling. I don't know if you've ever done this when you are on your own and you just let it out. It hurts but it was cathartic.
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Then he appeared.
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From my tears that had gently pooled on my floor black tendrils of smoke rose from my living room floor and began to merge and mix together to resemble a humanoid shape. The smoke slowly dissipated to reveal an unordinary man. He wore a Victorian black-tie suit with massive lapels, coat tails, a bow tie and a top hat that covered his eyes and nose only showing his widening smile full of sharpened teeth. Most strangely however were these breaks in his clothes and skin that were filled with this gorgeous gold liquid that flowed like small streams and shined off my living room lights.
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Of course, I screamed my head off. He didn't flinch, he maintained perfect stillness, an unshaken calm. Then slowly he reached behind his back and out of nowhere had conjured a Tesco’s bag. I didn't move, I was still terrified. But he gestured for me to take the bag and so I swiftly but carefully seized it to discover that the ingredients for brownies were within. So, with an unusual spectator, I got back to baking.
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There was a slight newfound confidence bubbling away unlike my brownies as the next batch were slightly better yet still far away from what you would call a brownie. Yet as I looked up this man held another Tesco’s bag. Eventually, iteration after iteration, pouring hours into a silly project, I ate a proper brownie. Rich, pure, unadulterated, sensual chocolate dripping down my throat.
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It was bliss.
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I had done it. I had fucking done it! I made a brownie and a fucking delicious one at that. It was mine, my victory, but I had someone I wanted to thank, someone I owed so much of this victory too.
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I cautiously looked to my unorthodox saviour. I cut a brownie from the tray and offered it. His long hand and gold bony fingers outstretched and he took it from me. He began to consume that brownie keeping his mouth open for every chew. His pearly white teeth browned with every bite as they were smattered with gooey chocolate delight. Then this smile continued to widen, with every mouthful it got wider and wider, and soon a crack formed down the centre of his top hat that filled with gold. He left as he arrived; black tendrils of smoke rose from the ground consuming him completely and soon after dissipated revealing nothing.
His smile was infectious as I caught myself grinning from ear-to-ear.
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