I Can’t Believe I’m Saying This, But I’m Deathly Afraid Of Cakes After What’s Been Happening To Me

The next day at work, I called the bakery. I figured they closed early, and that I’d be able to catch them during “normal” business hours. I had a hunch they’d refuse to reveal the name of the sender – not that it wasn’t blatantly obvious – but I would made damn sure they’d ban my address from future deliveries. Hopefully, Brad would get the message and move on.

“Welcome to Just Desserts Bakery! We hope you enjoy your Just Deserts! We’re sorry, but our store is closed right-”

“Fuck!” I shouted, tossing the phone aside.

That night, I had a date with an old friend from college. We had a pretty great time, and I ended up staying over at his place. When I tried to sneak out the next morning, I nearly tripped over a box on his front steps. No way, I thought. My hands shakily pulled the ribbons loose, and I peered inside.

“Twinkle twinkle little whore, shut your legs, they’re not a door.”

I recoiled in terror. Brad was stalking me. I knew it.

The abuse didn’t let up. Every day, I’d get home and another cake was waiting for me. Every damn day. Why? If he knew where I lived and if he was following me around, why hadn’t he shown his face yet? Was he trying to torture me? Slowly drive me insane? He must have spent a fortune buying all those cakes, and for what? To scare me? If that was his intention, then it was working splendidly. I was terrified, looking over my shoulder and through my blinds every few minutes. Scared of every shadow I saw and every headlight in the window. It was only a matter of time before he made his move. Every day, I’d get another horrible message. “Fuck you, bitch,” “Good riddance,” and my personal favorite, “This is poisoned.” Subtle, Brad. Real Subtle, I thought. I tried calling Just Desserts Bakery at various times of day, but no one ever answered.

Why did I even bother opening the boxes? I knew there was nothing good inside, just more abuse. More Brad. The scent of sugar infiltrated every corner of my apartment. I was sick of the odor. It was on and around me at all times. Even at work, I swear I could smell it.

beetlejuice

Canadian Horror Author

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