Jollity Archer – 13 years old – 683 words.

Kentucky Fried Heartbreak

He sat there, gently humming. The sound was so pure and sweet, more delicate than a lullaby.

I just stared at my glass. The fizzing of my wine slowly died down. Droplets stopped hopping away, no longer wanting to be free.

There was nothing to distract me now, nothing to hide the fact that my heart was broken, and would never be repaired. After tonight, I would never see the beauty on his face again, or the way he'd run his fingers through his blonde hair when he was nervous.

I hadn't noticed the clanking of his cutlery as it hit his plate.

'Chicken's good,' he mumbled, 'try and eat love'.

I stared down at the table, beholding a plate of gorgeous roasted potatoes, covered in apple sauce, a great bulging pile of delicious looking chicken legs, covered in countless different herbs, along with a healthy dose of garden vegetables; Carrots, Swede, Peas. And an indulging, rich, chocolate cake, smothered in a light helping of soft, marble cream.

What a waste. I wouldn't touch the food.

The dinner carried on, and nothing was said. The awkward silence burned in my throat, urging me to say something.

'You're a liar. You said forever.'

As soon as I'd said the words, I regretted them. They sounded cheesy coming out of my lips, as if I really believed him, even now. Which I didn't. I had no feelings for him anymore. This cold, glorious chicken sitting in front of me was the only thing I had half a heart for.

Inspiration blasted through my head. There might as well have been a flashing light bulb hovering above my brain screaming 'IDEA! IDEA!'

Suddenly, a storm of carrots and chocolate cake pelted him in a powerful rage, like a man born in war, filled with anger, hatred, and ready to fight on the front line.

Then more vegetables swan through the air, hitting him in his chin, his arm, his gut. Wine and apple sauce stained his pale shirt, until you could no longer see the salmon colour under the duvet of food.

Maybe I should've run. Ran home, and cry myself to sleep. After all, I didn't want to get my lovely new dress dirty from the hailing heap of dishes. It just flowed the right way around my hips, following my every move. It made me feel like a princess.

Except I wasn't a princess. I had been. I'd been his princess. Not anymore.

I tore and pulled at the hemming of my dress, scattering stray single threads of blue lining over the floor. Everyone was staring at me. I didn't have to look up from the worn material to realise that.

He still didn't speak.

Was he too shocked, too confused to speak? Choking back on cursing words he'd been dying to say?

Or did he get this? Maybe he'd been expecting this reaction all along, and was just sitting calmly in his chair, eating Swede of his trouser leg.

There was no one in the room but me.

Everything was left in perfect condition, except the area around our table. The floor, covered in sequins and bone cold carrots, looked like a filthy rage of waves, crashing surprisingly on the shore. The once calm and clean table was now caked in a multicoloured fiasco of food. Yet, my chicken, still sat perfectly on my china plate, stared at me. Though it was cold, the strong, barbeque scent wafted of it, just like a young girl, trying every one of her mother's perfumes, with curious eyes.

The golden/brown gorgeous colour made my mouth water uncontrollably. Its texture reminded me of my dress; as soft as silk, but in need of an iron.

Without realising it, my teeth were happily sinking into a moist, thick, chicken leg. I didn't care about anything else anymore. Not that my new, expensive dress was ruined, and not that the love of my life had left me.

'We don't need no men,' I whispered to the magnificent chicken, as I started to enjoy this new relationship.