“It’s hard to impress me with chicken,” she scowled as the dish was placed in front of her, the spices on the chicken holding a dark color, seemingly burnt. The side not even bringing anything to the visual appearance of the dish. She grabbed her knife, and fork: meticulously placed next to the dish’s spot on the table. She slammed the knife into the chicken, tearing through the flesh, each fiber adding resistance to the cuts she attempts to make. Soon her knife hits the bone, “this chicken clearly isn’t treated properly.” She pushed her fork into the chicken, having the dry chicken fill her mouth, the spices burnt on the outside brought about a distaste to the dish in front of her. “It’s over cooked, burnt. An utter disappointment for an establishment to call this edible. Let alone a chef that I hired to work at this family event, celebrating my wealth! Celebrating my prosperity! Not some faulty chefs cooking!” The women called out, yet no one responded. Her call fell on an empty room, her face began to contort with rage. “Hello! Do you know who I am!?” Yet again there was nothing. She began to look around, the tall hall exuded wealth. Adorned on the wall stood paintings, under which, metal plates hung below each painting, showcasing their artist, title, and date of the painting. However some failed to stand the test of time, many of the plates could no longer be read properly. “______ Brazil in 1644, by Theodore de bry” and “Saturn______, by Francisco de Goya” towered above the hall. The table, custom made of African Blackwood, brought a connection through the room, as the walls held a dark stain, seemingly ashen in color: as if they had been burned.

“Hello! Get me the chef now!” She went to take another bite, picking up the meat by the bone, and flesh. She tore another bite from the meat, the tough muscle fibers filled her mouth, still conveying that burnt flavor into her mouth. The paintings fell from their places, littering the hardwood floor, covering them in ash. The table blackened from fire, chairs fallen apart scattered the now cluttered floor. A fire pit laid across the room, still roasting flesh that was held above it. The woman stood up.

“Yes ma’am, the chef is on the way.” she turned around, just to sit back down in the chair.

“Finally! Thank you! Someone is finally showing respect to me!” She jolted from her chair yet again, turning around to face her place at the table.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience ma’am. We’ll remake it right away.” She grabbed the dish, the leg slid off.

“What the hell have you been feeding me!” Shock plastered her face, a realization she wasn’t supposed to make. The world spun around her, her legs began to give out. She collapsed on the floor, the roasting human flesh on the fire continued to burn, charring, filling the room with a horrid smell. Though no one else was there to smell it.