Her cake died.
She could see that as she opened the oven. It deserved its fate. She had slammed her oven door on a screaming, seething mess, begging her not to be baked.
The cake was conceived as butter, sugar, flour, and eggs lying dormant in a bowl. She’d dipped her hands into the batter, melded, moulded, breathed into it the air every cake needs. She hadn’t intended to give it life. A hideous seething, uncompromising life. Rare but possible.
She baked it anyway. It swore vengeance on its maker and vengeance it achieved. She wouldn’t eat it. Now or ever.