Quote:
Who knew fruit cake could be so good? A local bakery claims to have perfected their recipe and is giving away free samples. The good news? It’s delicious. The bad news? A few hours after ingestion, something strange kicks in. Suddenly, everything seems so colorful and bright. The music sounds so much better, everything tastes so much better—and then, it stops, and everything is an awful blend of everything. Lights are too bright, smells and tastes are overwhelming, music sounds like noise. You’re sick enough to throw up everything in your stomach—which is good, because within a few hours of that you finally start to feel normal again.
His spine tingled as he lay in bed, eyes half open, gaze lingering on his ceiling while his body started to come down from what he only could describe as a very wonderful and rather pleasing food coma. He was certain that that was what he was having. Some sort of after effect of eating too much food and too fast and it all being too good. His body, having being sated, left him in a state of euphoria, limbs sprawled over flannel sheets and his skin feeling like how static from a radio felt. Tingling, radiating from the base of his spine outwards and like he could feel it leaving his post at points. His fingers, his toes, his mouth. His teeth felt strange against his tongue and he could taste the lingering sweetness of fruit and the bite of spices from the bread. The cake had been moist and utterly delicious, but in the back of his mind, Dorian wondered if perhaps this was some kind of energy draining plot. Lure people in with tasty cakes and then when they were at their most vunerable, go to them, drain them dry, or rip out their starseeds if they proved of having enough value to be worth the hassle of killing.
The thing that was so surreal was that it had been ages since he’d eaten the fruitcake, but now, after dinner, it was all he could taste, all that lingered on his tongue now as he laid in bed and tripped out on everything around him. Not that he knew what tripping out felt like or anything he was just guessing he didn’t do drugs of course.
He would never admit to drugs, he’d be scolded if he did, (maybe. Probably. Drugs made you a liability and could throw you off when out doing your job. And Boy, did he not want to get scolded by any generals or worse, one of the general kings or queens. The idea was bad enough to give him chills.)
As Dorian stared at the ceilding mind wandering to how a general king or queen would scold him for getting high on drugged fruitcake, he felt it. The sudden churning in his lower gut. The feeling of acid in the back of his throat. Bile, sickness. Hands clamming up, sweat on his back, and a sense of ick that ran over his skin like slime. Gone were the good feelings, in rolled the let down, the drop from his high. Grimacing, Dorian did manage to make his way to the bathroom before the contents that followed the cake left his body in a violent fashion. It was bad. Everything felt bad. Sounds, smells, sights, it was as if he was on an over high, like it had been ramped up to an eleven and now everything was just plain old bad.
Heaving a few more times, Dorian slumped against the cool bathroom wall, wondering why he’d eaten the free sample in the first place.
Ah right.
Free food.
