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The rashes were unbearable, inflamed by even the wind’s nightly chill. They were plentiful upon pale flesh, itching to be scratched till crimson oozed from each cut.
Dead skin and flaky blood had already found refuge beneath Henryk’s nails. What could it hurt for more filth to join them? His flesh was begging itself for relief. Would it notice the difference from the agony just resting atop bed sheets brought it?
Sweat shone on Henryk’s face, his body restless, trembling in pain. He breathed through parted lips, every rasp shortening by the hour. His head swam, trying not to pay mind to the yellow blisters decorating his palms. Or the red scratches trailing down bare limbs.
Was he going to die? It was morbidly humorous for the young child to picture. His parents would be devastated, no doubt. What little money they saved would have to be used for Henryk’s coffin. They’d probably want an open casket funeral too, but then it would cost more to doll up his afflicted body. What makeup did embalmers use on rashes and blisters, anyways?
Another cough tore Henryk from his musings, reminding him that he was still alive. His eyes dilated, dry and tremorous, seeing vague silhouettes of the foliage he had meant to pick that day.
He had been out in a small forest, his father by his side. The sun cast large shadows over the two, seemingly limitless. Trees and branches twisted together to create a canopy, verdant leaves blocking what little gaps of light remained.
The vast protection had cooled Henryk’s skin. His plain, white shirt and shorts were all he bothered to wear. A gale rustled his blonde hair, combed a touch too finely for what the day would entail.
The child’s father had been explaining the difference between two berries, pointing out what indicated a poisonous nature and what didn’t. The two were bent near a bush, knees dirtied by grass and soil as Henryk nodded along, absorbing the information as if it were a regular school lesson.
Henryk had been focussed. Truely, he had been. What to touch and what not to was obvious. This wasn’t his first time foraging, after all. Klimkov’s needed to get its ingredients one way or the other.
Yet small, budding petals caught his attention in an invisible net. Henryk had never seen them before, the plant’s delicate flowers and jagged leaves a wonderful contrast. They balanced each other out, like savory meat was to sweet honey. His eyes shone, leaning closer to catch its scent. Bitter. Musty. How complementary! The blooms were even the same color as his shirt.
The child was about to ask his father what it was when his words lodged in his throat, an idea becoming their barricade.
With a turn, ensuring that the elder couldn’t see, Henryk plucked the plant from its stem. Into his foraging pouch it drifted, there with the berries and roots his family planned to have for dinner. He would examine it on his own, figuring out what dish it suited best. And maybe, if plausible, Henryk could prepare a surprise meal for his parents. He could give them a moment of rest.
Parent and child carried on, examining and collecting until the shade was no longer on them, signaling midday. They hurried back inside to mother, about to wash everything in the sink. Henryk, however, was careful to leave his mystery foliage where it was.
“Henryk?”
He looked back, one foot out the kitchen entrance. His breath hitched as his mother narrowed her eyes at him, arms crossed.
“Where do you think you’re going, young man? Your father and I can’t get all this work done ourselves.”
“Uh, I…” Henryk shrank back, wanting to hide behind the oaken door. “I don’t feel so well. I’m not supposed to cook while sick, right?”
He dug his nails into his palm, the abused hand reddening, hidden behind his back.
“He’s right, dear.”
Henryk froze, his mother raising a brow as her pointed gaze turned towards her husband.
“Ever since we got back, he’s been looking a little pale. Are you alright, Henryk?”
Come to think of it, the child was feeling a bit lightheaded. His mouth was dry, fingertips tingling as they shook.
“I-it’s nothing,” he sputtered, swaying slightly in place. “I’ll just b- be upstairs in my room…”
Without waiting for a reply, Henryk ran out and hid in his bathroom, almost tripping as he fumbled with the lock.
Hands clammy, supporting his weight as he leaned against the wooden sink, Henryk stared at his own reflection. Looking back at him was a pale child, jaw hanging open as he struggled to breathe through his nose. His eyelids fluttered as if a butterfly’s wings, languid in its resting state. His hair, once neat, had collected various pines and dirt.
What's happening to me..? I need to tell-
Henryk’s eyes widened at the thought, shaking it out of his dizzy head. No, he couldn’t do that. His family was struggling so much already. To add on to that burden… What would it say about him?
The child had overheard his mother and father arguing over the bills before, over what to add or remove to their tavern’s menu in order to retain public interest. Why would Henryk ever want to thicken that layer of stress?
It’d be absurd to tell them. They would worry, taking him to a doctor only to be billed an amount they couldn’t pay. And considering Henryk’s bitter luck, nothing might be wrong with him in the first place. He then would have wasted everyone’s time. It was unbearable to consider…
Henryk, eyes clamped shut, breathed in as deeply as possible. His lungs burnt.
What was wrong with him? He had ingested none of the foliage picked this morning. So was it something he touched-?
The mystery plant.
Tearing himself from the bathroom, Henryk stumbled over to his bookshelf, running a twitching finger along the colorful spines. He pulled out a red textbook, one he knew to be about botany and foraging.
Collapsing onto his bed, Henryk flipped through, stopping when the familiar leaves and flowers appeared before his dreary vision.
“Poison Hemlock” was the name staring back at him. Poison…
He blinked sluggishly. Henryk went through the last pages, rechecking the ones he had passed, examining the entire book front to back. There were similar plants in there, yet certain features wouldn’t stay constant with the one Henryk had found. Even then, most were labeled some sort of hazardous hemlock, anyways.
For All-mer’s sake…
Henryk, despite his blurry sight, managed to return to the page he had found initially. He made out the symptoms that contact would afflict below the large illustration. Most of which, of course, matched up perfectly.
He wanted to slap himself, yet he wasn’t even sure if he had strength enough for that. The one thing that made no sense was that these effects were for if he had eaten the hemlock. Henryk had barely touched it, so why did it feel as though his body was languishing faster than his mind?
Rest… he longed for it more than anything. The child didn’t even return the textbook to its shelf, let alone close it properly. He merely kicked it off his mattress, curling in on himself atop the bed sheets. The thump it gave against the hardwood was static to his ears. He wasn’t even sure if he was mad or anything. Sleep was the only thing on the child’s barely lucid mind.
Henryk remained bed bound for the rest of the day. His golden locks stuck to his temple, matted by sweat. He’d hold himself tighter, until the pain became unbearable.
Every so often a knock would sound from outside, a concerned voice asking if he was alright. Henryk would pretend to be asleep until their footsteps became inaudible. Night had fallen by that point, no rest obtained whatsoever.
For the next week or so, he made sure to wear only his button ups. He fastened them all the way to his collar, nearly choking himself. The child paired them with dress pants and a vest, even donning the foraging gloves too rough for his tender flesh. Foundation and color correctors were caked onto Henryk’s face, stolen from mother’s drawer.
His parents found the sudden shift in style strange, yet they never questioned their son. They only had him remove the gloves when needed, not noticing the way Henryk hid his hands behind his back.
They never found out what was wrong with their son.
-
Cooking was the one thing keeping Henryk sane. Even when he relocated his road kitchen at Abella’s behest, with an eager smile no less, a daunting energy had overtaken his mind completely. He couldn’t focus, no matter how much he tried, on what the redhead had been telling him.
The hemlock had been finely diced and mixed with the seasoning, its bitter scent obscured by hints of paprika and garlic. Into the goulash it went, no longer detectable amongst the deep colors and aromas. When it was ready, the chef brought it out, unable to look at the awed contestants.
Henryk had made more food than he thought necessary. And yet, much to his surprise, there were a total of eight people at the PRHVL Bop. They ended up scarfing everything down, even the bits of meat stuck to the bottom of his pot. Except for Abella, that is.
The scene was all too similar to Rondon. It was like being back in his hometown, getting praised by strangers and admirers on his way to Klimkov’s. Henryk would put on his uniform, beaming in spite of the stress, and just cook . Cook way past his shift, until the final customer had filed out. The culinary arts gave him purpose.
Even when all his dreams had failed, having a recipe in mind and ingredients on hand made everything better. It was home given mobility, consistent despite its varying locations. He’d have it no other way.
“Again, thank you for the meal,” the suited man across from him repeated. “I’ve never had goulash before, but I’m glad that your iteration was my first!”
“Yeah!”
Their heads turned to a young girl with pigtails, seated at the bar with a bottle of vodka. No doubt fished out from the garbage.
“That stuff was amazing! Way better than the other delicacies around here.”
Henryk’s eyes began to water, his smile never reaching them. He excused himself, body rigid. Their concerned gaze followed his every move.
Everyone here would continue laughing, getting to know each other, naive to what the everso kind chef had put on their plates. It made Henryk want to hurl.
There was no use in asking himself why he decided to poison everyone. It was Day 2 of the festival, just a night away from their deadline. If Henryk had any chance of escaping, of surviving this damn town, he had to take it.
Right..?
The chef descended the ladder, crashing onto a bottom bunk inside the Speakeasy. He held himself, knees shielding his face as the first tears began to fall. He bit his tongue, the pain sharpening, trying not to let out a single sound as he sobbed. Even as a metallic tang coated his teeth.
His body shook against the bed, its springs going off. His breath hitched, frozen as he paled from fear. Henryk tried to soothe himself with whispers that his mother used to tell him. Yet his breaths became more rugged as he realized that he couldn’t.
Each inhale felt as though a thin needle piercing his lungs, twisting further and further inside as Henryk lost control of himself.
I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I cant I CAN'T-
The clack of shoes against the floor startled him, his hands flying to his face. Blonde locks were out of place, skin undoubtedly flushed. He looked like a mess…
And just to his luck, the person staring with wide eyes was the one who invited him here in the first place.
“Oh my gods! Are you okay?!” Abella rushed forward, stopping as she noticed how Henryk’s gasps worsened.
The chef couldn’t speak, his breath shortening at every attempt. Tears flowed without restraint, mucus coating his palms as Henryk tried to keep his reddening face from view. Thankfully, Abella got the hint.
Turning herself away, the mechanic’s jaw dropped. Yet nothing left it as words failed to form. She ended up on the other bunk, looking at Henryk every few minutes. She remained silent as she fidgeted, obviously wanting to help as the chef shuddered in place.
Why was she, out of everyone here, the one concerned about him? He had made a tactless comment about her rear, called her love, and whatnot. Why would she give a rat’s ass about Henryk?
If only Abella knew what would happen to those contestants upstairs…
He deserved her scorn. Why couldn’t she just start yelling at him? It would hold him accountable for something, at least. Henryk needed worse than these tears. Something that would make up for the eight deaths he was about to cause overnight.
Eight… after everything, that number seems so little…
Henryk wasn’t even guaranteed to win the festival. There was no promise of seeing his parents again, or of being loved by Rondon once more. His crimes could easily catch up to him.
Yet in Prehevil, did they even count as crimes?
Henryk, through his worsening vision, peeked past his digits. Why was Abella still here? He was trembling violently, shaking as though a turbulent storm. Why couldn’t she just leave?
He never should have stepped foot in Prehevil, his culinary career be damned. And damn those hemlocks for even being here. If only he’d never encountered them as a child… then, Henryk would’ve never known what they were.
But he had to be honest with himself. In such a world, would that single difference prevent him from becoming a murderer?
A stillness calmed Henryk’s body, the occasional shuddering or whimper all that escaped from the chef’s form. He jumped back when Abella handed him a tissue, pale body pressed harshly against the wall.
“Here, I carry these with me all the time.”
He took it cautiously, hand anything but still. At least the mechanic had decided not to interrogate him. With averted eyes, Henryk felt a twinge of appreciation.
He cleaned himself up, using more force than he knew necessary against his sensitive face. The two sat there, unwilling to look at the other as the chatter from above spoke for them. But eventually, one of them would have to say something.
Abella fixed her gaze on the chef, tone soft. “Are you feeling better now?”
Henryk squeaked in response, flushing at the sound he hadn’t meant to make. He nodded, not sure if he was lying to himself.
“I- I don’t want to assume what it is you’re going through, or pretend that it’s going to go away,” the mechanic confessed. “But we all have each other, every single one of us… we’re here for you.”
Her sympathy was nearly enough to make Henryk start bawling again. He didn’t deserve it, no matter how many justifications came to mind.
And yet, part of him wanted to let her in. To tell Abella what it was he did, to tell her about all the atrocious things he’s done in this sad life. The one thing stopping him was that sympathy, a sweet nectar whose addictive quality rivaled that of sugar. He held his knees closer, knowing that true daylight would never grace his form again.
Abella’s presence was enough to soothe Henryk into near quiet, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was alive. The mechanic, after what must’ve been ages, went to sleep on that same bunk she sat on. But not before talking to Henryk one last time.
“Remember,” she smiled, the warmth of the sun bleeding through her pale eyes. “If you need us, we’re right here.”
Out like a light she went. The laughter and talk from above halted entirely. There were a few thuds that the chef knew to be unconscious heads hitting the tabletops, only the soft lull of music preventing true silence. How Abella slept through that was a mystery in itself.
Henryk sighed deeply, trying not to think of the cold, lifeless bodies that would greet him once he made his getaway. The various blisters and rashes were to be expected, just as Henryk once bore when he was a child.
He thought of the young girl who had complimented his cooking. Wasn’t she native to Prehevil?
He clambered up the ladder, nearly sprinting out of the club before he could unconsciously look back. There was no doubt that come morning, Abella would wake to find poisoned contestants, the same people she had promised would be there for Henryk. His heart twisted at the thought, the chef trying to be rid of it as soon as it came.
These people had tried. Tried so hard, that it must’ve made Rher himself feel empathy, to live normally. To pretend that everything was okay, that nothing would happen if they refused the moon’s orders.
They should’ve known that difience goes unrewarded.
The nightly gale stung Henryk’s wet cheeks, tousling his hair as he dashed along the cold, darkened streets of Prehevil. He ignored the way he wobbled, how every gasp turned into a sob. His clumsy run became a walk, knees buckling. Henryk needed to drag his aching feet to get to his destination.
The Mayor’s Manor had to have a bed, after all.