Thomas looks for something to eat

“There’s nothing to eat,” Thomas said, looking at half a roasted chicken sitting atop a bed of greens. “Nothing at all.” He closed the fridge door and lay on the floor. He looked at the ceiling. It was painted an awful beige, and it was peeling. Some of the patches made an unhappy face. He sighed and opened the fridge again. A low hum emanated from beneath the shelves. They were laden with, in addition to the chicken, a bowl of tuna fish mixed with not enough mayonnaise, a plate of fried rice that had been sitting in there for way too long and what was she thinking in keeping that half rotted thing it even had mould growing on it and – oh. It was that expensive blue cheese she was always mooning on about. Thomas made a face and moved on. Orange juice, almost expired orange juice, an opened can of Coke that he sniffed at and –

There were those sausages, he thought hopefully. They were pretty good the last time he’d eaten them. He opened a drawer. The package of sausages was empty. Somewhere deep inside Thomas’ soul, a darkness emerged, filled with a bewildered hurt against the world. The fridge beeped at him, and in its electronic monotone he heard no comfort. Thomas closed the door.

The universe was trying to tell him something. That was it. There couldn't be another reason why he would be tormented this way.

“Haven’t I been good?” he asked the toaster. “Haven’t I been –“

His voice caught in his throat, and there was a burning in his chest.

“Jesus wept,” he said, in a small voice.

He sniffled.

And then, almost in slow motion, the box of cornflakes fell to the floor, its contents spilling out into the air, falling in graceful arcs, shattering into fractal pieces on the marbled floor –

Thomas blinked. The box of cornflakes was still on the shelf, its colourful box proclaiming now with marshmallow bits in gold and green, its box standing firmly on the shelf, a rock upon which the hopes and dreams of every cell in his body stood. It was beautiful. Thomas reached out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly, his gaze affixed. And when he finally touched the flimsy cardboard there was a palpable warmth to the box, and a heady intoxication that overwhelmed his senses. A low thrum filled his ears like a thousand saxophones behind a soundproof Plexiglas and the colours – why, the colours vibrated in his very soul.

“This is sacred ground,” he murmured, caressing its fine print, his index finger obscuring total fat, cholesterol and sodium. “Sacred.”

He lifted the box gently, careful of its weight. Every moment was drawn out in time, a lifetime compressed into each second and then expanding to the aeons. Mountains bloomed from the rock and the heavens threw them down from lofty heights, rivers formed and swept the earth to oceans wide and blue – a winged being, raising a spear at a huge sauropod, muscles tensing, roaring as the spear found its mark. In each beat of 

Thomas’ heart he felt the heat death of the universe draw nearer and nearer, a million voices crying out and suddenly silenced –

Thomas closed his eyes. “Jesus wept,” he said, reverentially. There was a sparkle of knowing in his eyes. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved his favourite bowl. He moved gracefully, reaching over for a spoon, the fridge door pulled open with just enough strength to grab a bottle of milk. He rapped the bottle of milk with the spoon and listened to its hum reverberate, marvelling at the sound.

He opened the cereal box and began to pour, a gentle susurration in his ears as the cornflakes rustled, calling out his name. Calling out his name! This was divine providence. Surely, surely there was a God. Thomas had no doubts now, no niggling questions in the back of his head, no unanswered problems to wrestle with.

This was the land of milk and honey flavoured cornflakes, and Thomas feasted.

Thomas gorged.

Thomas ate with a ferocity almost animalistic, desire coursing through his veins. Tasting, tasting infinite sweetness, flavours sliding over his tongue. His spoon, dipping, diving, driving against the bottom of the bowl, and as he swallowed the last moist crumb, Thomas shuddered in violent pleasure.

And when he had placed the box of cornflakes back on the shelf, and washed and cleaned the mystical implements of spoon and bowl, Thomas felt a strange loss. The vibrant hues had retreated to their wan pastels, and time had returned to its steady tick-tocking. Yet there was a part of him irreversibly connected to that moment now, a part of him that had experienced apotheosis and had then been cast down. Thomas wiped the table clear mechanically, his hand rubbing in circles, wondering if everything in his life had culminated to a point now five minutes in the past.

“Is that all there is?” he asked. Would there be a division in the line of his life, a mark that indicated the measure before cornflakes and after? A steady rise to the peak, and sharp decline to follow? Thomas’ stomach gurgled. He looked down at it.

“No, no, no, no,” he said. The bottle of milk. It was next to the – where was it? There! Thomas grabbed at it. It slipped out of his hand and he caught it at the tips of his fingers. “No, no, no, no,” he said, looking at the label. We are reminded, briefly, of Newton’s third law, which states, and let us read it out together, ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’

Of Thomas and his flight to the porcelain throne, we shall speak no more.

Instead, let us be encouraged by the simple fact that for all the men and women that have been born, each one has a story to tell of a devastating number two. This one is Thomas’.

Fin