Page 18 of The Last Feast
CAKE…BUT SMALL
Auguste watches her move in circles until she sways on her feet. She doesn’t hit the floor, despite tripping over herself, because he swoops in to catch her, adding more conviction to the violent fairytale he’s convinced himself of.
Hana knows better. She knows all fairytales are filled with gore, blood, and deceit. This thing between them can’t be a fairytale because she hasn’t lied to him. It’s a feast of her soul that has made her forget her stomach for the first time in her eighteen years of life.
Auguste hasn’t forgotten as he keeps her against his chest and asks, “When did you last eat?”
She has to think about it, since he interrupted her meal with the deer.
Her aunt and uncle stopped allowing her to have food in preparation for her leaving their home.
She wasn’t able to earn more money for them, so that removed the perks she was bestowed.
But as she thinks about the last morsel that passed her lips, she can’t remember what it was.
All she has is the cake of Auguste’s voice as he softly says, “Go shower while I make you something to eat.”
He softly kisses her temple, and her eyes close at the care in his touch.
It’s removed too soon as he leans back and guides her up the stairs.
Her dirty sneakers sink into the soft cream runner, and she glares at the brass rods keeping it in place—they resemble the fire poker used to brand her back when she would attempt to run away as a child.
But she’s not eased when they reach the top of the staircase, where the walls are lined with silk paper, glittering under the large chandeliers at either end of the corridor.
Her bedroom at the orphanage was a dorm with fifteen other children that they were responsible for keeping clean.
The room she was given at her aunt and uncle’s house was only slightly better.
She wasn’t surrounded by bunks, but that wasn’t solitary.
This house is. There’s no proof of life, even though it’s clean, shiny, and cared for as Auguste guides her to a large bedroom with white linens covering a bed bigger than any room she’s ever had.
Noticing where her gaze is fixed, he kisses her crown.
“Shower, eat, and then you’ll lay down so I can bury my tongue in your divine cunt. ”
The bathroom is somehow even more luxurious than the bedroom. To the wealthy, it wouldn’t be fit for their tastes, with the outdated sunken tub and ornate carvings in the marble sconces. But to Hana, who has never witnessed opulence, it’s all shiny and new.
They stop in front of the shower, and the brass lever creaks as Auguste turns it to the hottest setting. It takes a while for steam to rise, but he tests the water, adjusting the temperature in increments until it no longer burns his skin, to make sure it’s comfortable for her.
He doesn’t leave the room as the spray splashes against the glass enclosure. Instead, he asks, “Can I take care of you, Hana?”
She doesn’t trust her voice and nods. The unease of being asked first is dampened by the newfound appreciation for her choice holding importance.
She can’t do anything other than watch Auguste as he reverently lifts the t-shirt from her body.
Her hair is his next focus. Making sure not to pull any of the strands, he lifts the sticks that got caught during their tussle on the fear factory floor then unwraps the vines she’d fashioned to tie her hair up.
The strands don’t flow down her back due to the blood sticking them together, so he delicately runs his fingers through her hair to separate them.
There’s a smile fixed on his face, as though he’s incapable of looking at her with any other expression. Hana mimics it, both of them smiling at one another when they’d given up hope on humanity as children.
Broken people have a way of being resilient. They continue to survive against all odds—when you have no choice, the route is easy. You keep following it, accepting the things that are happening to you. It’s when there are no horrors or chaos that it’s the most terrifying.
So, they keep smiling with blood on their skin and marks on their body, because they’ve found a way to own the chaos, to make it theirs in such a way that they’ll spend the rest of their lives trying to replicate the moments of this night.
Auguste reverently holds her face with both hands then softly kisses her forehead.
Hana stops breathing under the intensity of his care as he takes a deep breath.
There’s a pause when they each hold hope for their future—collective and individual: Hana afraid of not wanting to die, Auguste terrified of her leaving him alone, allowing the anxiety and pain back in.
“Break me, bite me, or mend me?” he hesitantly whispers.
Which Hana deflects by reminding him, “It doesn’t matter. You’re here to stay.”
She means it too. There are many sins she’s committed in her short life, but lying was never her vice. It’s why she knows that when tomorrow comes, Auguste will exist. He’ll go on with his life, but she’ll be dead, with him plaguing her final moments.
The death she imagined was cold, without anything left in her wake.
Now, she hopes she’ll live on in his memory as the woman she’s become, one who wasn’t afraid and one who was cared for so deeply in her final moments.
She prays to a God who refused to listen to her screams and pain as a child to allow her to experience the same care Auguste showed to the deer she killed.
And she closes her eyes, imagining him lowering to his haunches over her cooled body. How he’d gently stroke her face just like he is now. How he’d ask her “Who hurt you, beautiful girl?” like the morning of her birthday after blowing out her candle.
She then imagines how she’ll stand beside him, ready to walk through life as his defender so those pains he feels aren’t expressed in isolation. How she’ll be a shoulder for him to lay his head on when he needs to shed his tears.
More than all of that, she hopes for there to be a way for them to achieve a tomorrow-less world without death, to explore this growing maddening obsession, because if they had a different ending, maybe she could change her mind.
Maybe, just maybe, she can experience what growing old is like without pain when she’s always been surprised at achieving another year.
But he leaves before her prayers can be answered. “Shower, baby,” he says as he turns. “I’ll have everything ready by the time you’re done. The kitchen is down the stairs on the left.”
Finished with her shower and wrapped in a fluffy robe that feels like clouds and smells like flowers, Hana walks through the large house, taking in the ornate décor. Gold inlays separate the dark wood panels on the floor, and crystal chandeliers sparkle above her no matter which room she enters.
But when she reaches the ground floor and smells the sugar in the air as the man who stole her knife softly hums, all the luxury around her may as well be rusted and rotten.
Auguste showered at the same time as her in one of the other bathrooms, so if anyone witnessed them, they’d assume it’s a normal domestic routine, with Auguste cooking in his boxers and Hana slowing her steps to watch him without getting caught.
The eight-seater marble island is full of different items: scrambled eggs, fruit, cereal, long loaves of warmed bread.
But she smiles at the sight of him cooking for her.
He turns with items she’s never seen before stacked on a spatula before she’s had her fill.
His smile is slow as he takes in her bare features, and it makes his voice slower too. “Come here, beautiful.”
Hana’s cheeks heat as she nervously makes her way to him, tucking her hands into the deep pockets of the gown.
She stops short of him by two feet and focuses on the spread he’s prepared.
Auguste doesn’t allow that to deter him as he curls his fingers over the belt tied at her waist and pulls her closer.
He drops the spatula on a porcelain plate as he turns her so her back is pressed against the marble edge then dips his head to catch her eyes.
She quickly looks at him then diverts her eyes under the intensity in his stare. It makes him smile wider as he satisfies his curiosity regarding her freckles. He softly presses his lips to each cluster spreading across the highs of her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.
“Clever girl,” he whispers when he finishes the line at her cheek. “My clever Hana.”
All Hana has ever been called is stupid, a stupid girl who does everything incorrectly. Hearing him call her clever mends the thorns she grew around her heart to protect herself from the harshness of the Sisters of St. Agnes’ orphanage.
Tipping her chin up on his knuckles, Auguste asks, “Will you let daddy feed his clever girl?”
She nods once, fearful of the care he’s showing her.
Many people have referred to themselves as Hana’s daddy when she was pimped out to pay for her upkeep at the orphanage. Then, it felt like they were taunting her for being an orphan; now, it feels like Auguste is pledging to care for her, to protect her and nourish her with more than food.
He lifts her up to sit on the marble then smoothly steps between her thighs before carefully selecting the best berries to feed her. The juices wash the cake of his voice from her tongue, but she’s wrapped in his attention, so she doesn’t spit it out.
Every bite she swallows is rewarded with his soft lips against her cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers and strokes her hair back as she swallows. “There’s no tomorrow, so I’m going to feed you like this forever. Do you want chocolate chip or blueberry?”
“I’ve never had blueberries.”
Auguste’s face falls, and he looks behind him at the empty punnet. He used the berries in the pancake mix, so there’s none left for her to try on their own. Apology fills his voice as he looks back at her, massaging her thigh. “We’ll have them another time. They’re sweeter like this though.”
He pierces one of the mini pancakes with a fork then blows on it to make sure it doesn’t burn her tongue before bringing it to her lips. Hana moves back, asking, “What is it?”
“Pancakes, baby. They have blueberries in them. Do you want chocolate chip instead?”
“It’s cake…?” She naively looks up at him as her cheeks burn. “But small?”
There’s no judgment as he nods, softening his voice. “Yeah. Just small cakes.”
Hana opens her mouth, eager to taste the difference between the cake of his voice and the cake he’s made.
She narrows her eyes when the sugar and tart blueberries greet her tastebuds.
It’s not close to the smoothness of Auguste’s voice, so she swallows, rinses it away with water, then plucks a chocolate chip pancake up to test that.
“This,” she thinks, nodding to herself. Taking another, she pulls on his jaw then places it on his tongue. He closes his lips while her two fingers are still in his mouth and lightly sucks, making her squirm.
Hana places her palm flat on his chest to feel his heart beating as she slowly pulls her fingers out of his mouth. Watching him chew, she explains, “That’s your voice.”
A small crease forms between his brows.
“Your voice. You know how everyone can taste voices, sounds? It tastes like the small cake, but more.” Her voice gets softer and slower the longer he stares at her, becoming more perplexed at her explanation.
He shakes his head. “I can’t… No one can taste voices, baby.”
The hardest gap for someone with limited interactions with other people is that they don’t know anything beyond their own normal.
Hana has spent her life knowing her circumstances were different.
She didn’t go to a school like the wealthy children or go on holidays.
She never had stories read to her like the other children in the orphanage who remembered having parents.
But she never thought she was different.
All she can say with that realization is a meek, “Oh.”
Auguste quickly picks her mood up, along with her chin. “It’s your secret power. I knew you weren’t just Hana. What does your voice taste like?”
“Bread.”
He laughs in disbelief.
“There’s nothing bland about you.” Leaning into her, he easily describes her without having any time to craft a response.
“If I’m cake, then you’re a full course meal.
You’d start with mushrooms, wild and nutty.
Then steak, probably blue. And you’d be finished with a decadent salted chili mousse.
Sweet, smooth, but there’s a kick that cuts through the sugar to make it memorable. ”
Hana blushes harder at how in depth he explains something as insignificant as her voice, especially a voice that hasn’t held any weight. But he feels the same as her, because they’ve both been silenced. Now, they’ve given more meaning to the ignored notes than anyone else ever will.
They continue feeding each other as Hana builds a palate for Auguste to understand what the different sounds taste like. He doesn’t lose his smile or laugh at her understanding of the world. He just listens to her, committing the soft cadence of her voice to memory as he massages her thigh.