A Day in the Life of Mitchell - An Autobiography

Yes, folks it is a Day in the Life of Mitchell, a diary! It's so manly that it will make you pee your pants. For the 7 days competition and also to cheer up my girlfriend since she threw up quite a bit today haha but let's not go there!

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1. The Bully of the Kitchen

I don’t remember how I got here. All I know now is that this man in a mint blue suit is now asking me questions on my most recent encounter with the one known as “The Butcher.” Oh! the nightmares that come to strike fear into my heart by the mere mention of that name. It was a normal Saturday… well as normal as a Saturday can be on Valentine’s Day. Yet nothing could prepare me for the encounter that I would have that day. He then clasped my right hand making me jump… but I was already restrained by long ropes and chains. Clearly, something went terribly wrong.

Investigator: So… erm… Mitchell. (He hesitated.) I understand you are quite confused how you got here, but can you perhaps tell me what the last thing you remember is?

Me: Well, I remember being stuck in awe at a beautiful sight and then it happened.

Investigator: What happened?

Me: To understand what happened, I think it is best if you know the whole story from beginning to end… from the moment I walked into that dreaded kitchen.

Investigator: Right, of course! Then go ahead. (He then withdrew his hand and took out a notebook to begin writing down the details I was about to reveal to be true.)

Me: Naturally, I followed my girlfriend, whom I previously thought to be the most loving and caring woman on the face of the earth, into the kitchen because that was the plan. We were, as you know, going to make dinner for the family. But the second we stepped into that kitchen… well I don’t know; it’s a bit hard to explain.

Investigator: (He raised an eyebrow at me.) What’s hard to explain?

Me: There just seemed to be a change in moods the second we walked in, almost like a dark aura suddenly started emanating from my girlfriend, almost as if she felt the power of the kitchen being imbued into her. (I stopped as he signaled me to go on.) I honestly thought it was feminine instinct. But anyway, I walked into the kitchen totally ignorant of what would happen in the near future, for how could I ever know what was going to happen, that I would end up here? So, seeing that we had much work to get done I then asked what I needed to do in the kitchen. (I burst into tears.)

Investigator: I know this experience may be hard for you to go into detail, but please try your best.

Me: Yes, okay. So, she then turned toward me with a knife in her hand and held as if I was about to be jabbed in the gut by it. That’s when she said in a tone I’ve never heard before, “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’re never going to forget!” Luckily, I did nothing to incite any further anger… as I could’ve been stabbed before we even began. She then continued after putting the knife away, “You, my awful little peasant, will be in charge of making biscuits. NO ONE can ever mess those up.” I gulped at the pressure presented before me and had to withdraw into the corner of the kitchen to collect my thoughts.

Investigator: Collect your thoughts?

Me: I’ve never made biscuits before!!! I needed to know how I was going to survive! So as she pulled out a bouillon cube for the chicken gravy she was to make, she shoved one up clean up the nose as she spitefully demanded, “SMELL IT!” Unfortunately, I had no choice but to allow her to shove the cube up my nose to which she found a despicable pleasure of my most unpleasant reaction. That’s when I thought I could save myself.

Investigator: And how could you save yourself from such lunacy?

Me: I decided that if I ‘looked’ busy, she would no longer bother me. So I began following the instructions to the biscuits I were to make. I poured in 3 and ¼ cup of flour, then dumped some shortening into the mix and then added the improper amount of baking soda into the mix. During this time, she glanced back behind herself and mockingly asked, “Do you even know what you’re doing?!” To that I answered that I did, but she did not believe me. She then came over and blinded me with a flick of flour. In my blindness then, she slapped me across the face with the dirtiest sponge she could find! (I began crying again.) “You’re an idiot!” she said as she slammed my head down to the instructions, “You’re supposed to follow these directions!” In my defense, the directions were barely visible, but she expected me to see them even with flour straining my eyesight. It was terrible.

Investigator: (He just dropped his pencil at the last thought then motioned me to go on.)

Me: That’s not even the worst part. I then admitted to two things, which I wish I might not have. I firstly admitted that I read teaspoons as tablespoons and she grew red with fury. She then took out the right amount of baking soda that had been accidentally added and shoved it down my throat. I could barely breathe… as if barely being able to see was bad enough. “There! How’s that feel?!” She sneered at me as she chuckled at my sheer agony. By this time I was nearly peeing my pants. Every move I made to make the biscuits was done in short convulsions; I just couldn’t stop myself from shaking. But with due time, I did finish the recipe.

Investigator: And how did she like that?

Me: She didn’t. My recipe called for the use of all the flour, which she first pointed out. “You didn’t save me any flour!” She screamed into my ear and then screamed even louder, “And you should know not to over-mix the biscuit mix! D*** you, don’t you want flaky biscuits for dinner? You’ll be lucky if you even get to eat now!” This chastising was then followed by again blinding me with flour and a large, hearty laugh for my overt pain.

Investigator: My God!

Me: Yes, I know. Thankfully her anger was slightly diverted by the entrance of her mother, who possibly saved my life. Her mother asked when dinner would be ready to which Anna replied, “Whenever this idiot learns to cook right!” They both laughed at me. It didn’t feel good. (I wiped the coming tears out of my eyes.) Diligently then I finally completed my task and then only needed to knead and roll out the dough to cut out. (I took a moment to keep myself together.) Right then and there, I told Anna that I was about to knead, but she did not like that. She put her hands around my neck and shook me around like a ragdoll as she furiously spoke, “You like kneading don’t you? Well guess what, YOU are NOT going to do it!” She then shoved me back to the corner where I was working and told me to roll out the dough.

Investigator: And how did that go? (He looked at me as if I shouldn’t alive at this point; it was like he thought the pain I experienced in one evening was just too much for one man.)

Me: Well, I rolled out the dough to the width she personally wanted it and then she laughed and said, “You fool, I need thicker cutouts than that!” So again, I did it to her specified width and again she mocked my ability to follower her orders. The next time I rolled it out, I did not ask for her advice until I was done; this actually worked. So now with the biscuits in the oven I could finally relax. That is, I was convinced this was a test of my skill; therefore, I reminded her constantly that the biscuits were in the oven. But of course, she already knew the time they would need to be out as she set the timer and listened to not a word I said. It was during this time that her sister, Rachel, walked in.

Investigator: Oh dear.

Me: (I paused as I thought of the terror that I was about to begin to explain.) Yes, well once Rachel entered the kitchen, Anna threw me toward Rachel and I stumbled down onto my knees before her. Anna then said, “This clown can’t even make biscuits with the right recipe!” I of course tried to explain my case, but my voice was too small to be of any power and I found myself being scorned from both sides of the coin. There was no escape. Rachel then took hold of me and put me up to my feet as Anna began to beat me up with her culinary skills. Never before have I seen such culinary art being used in such torturous ways. Struggling for my last chance for survival, I then called out, “BISCUITS!” Anna then looked stunned and went back to the biscuits. Rachel then left the room dropping me to my knees to let me grovel on the ground again. By this time I had been thoroughly beat up in the kitchen and there was but one more biscuit round to go. I then crept off to the corner on the other side of the kitchen where I was safely hidden behind a table.

Investigator: That must have been terrifying…

Me: Yes, and I remember repeating over and over again as if I was mindless and insane, “BISCUITS, Biscuits, biscuits, bisc…” Dinner was finally ready, which to my sorrow, I could not escape. Anna drug me out to the dinner table and coerced me to dine with them at the table. However, I was fed nothing but scraps. Anna even forced me to eat a biscuit that went terribly wrong!

Investigator: And then what happened?

Me: After everyone left the table but my girlfriend and I, she then trotted into the kitchen again. My head slid down to the table in fatigue of the whole experience, but it was not over. She approached me with one large butcher knife in her hand and laid it out before me. I almost swooned over my imminent fate. Then everything after that was a blur.

Investigator: You don’t remember?

Me: No, no. I do. It just… happened so quickly.

Investigator: So what do you remember?

Me: She dreadfully asked me staring at the knife, “Now do you know what happens next?” My life began to flash before me, for I was too young to die. So many things were left undone! After perhaps a minute of no response I shook my head that I did not know. She then came swirling in and laid a kiss on my cheek and lovingly said, “Those biscuits were great.”

Investigator: Wait that’s… THAT’S IT?!

Me: Yep. (He looked terrified by my answer.) Well, other than somehow after that kiss everything went black, and somehow now I am here sitting in a mental institute. (That did not soothe him either according to his countenance.)

Investigator: (He was holding in his anger.) Well by good boy. It would appear that I am going to have to diagnose you with none other than: the love bug. That is all; now leave my office.

So that was that. I left the mental institute with no clue how I was teleported to such a place, for I left thinking that nothing other than teleportation could have explained my tragic loss of memory of time and place. According to my memory, I was missing three days, and as I checked the date of the calendar, my memory served me correct. It was three days since Valentine’s Day occurred, and I have no account of what happened in between. As such I can only suggest two strong possibilities and their consequence: 1) I am truly insane in which case the psychologist made a terrible mistake to let me free into such a world or 2) I truly was missing three days in which the consequences could be endless until the mystery is solved. Obviously, the second of these two possibilities is more likely than the former; so, I shall begin my search to solve such a mystery. Many things happen here that cannot be explained, but truth is ever present in the most mystifying of times.

 

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