Sweet Cinnamon Bakery

The snow piled onto the streets. More packed and bright than the usual street mush. This year, unlike the others, was especially cold. The city of Detroit was no stranger to the harsh and unforgiving winter. Below freezing temperatures and needing apartment heating to keep warm is a yearly occurrence. Right between the poor outskirts of the city and the buzzing heart, stood a luxurious condo-style apartment and a vacant building with the sign “Sweet Cinnamon Bakery” clutching to the rotting wood. The old bakery building was a shelter for the homeless. There was a soft scent of icing still seeping from the open wood planks. Many frequented the building for a night’s shelter. Nobody stayed more than a night, during the slumber they seemed to disappear to the shadows of a cold night. She never saw them leave the bakery, and never saw them come back. Except for a mother and her 5-year-old daughter. Mary Williams lived across the street. She had stringy black hair, pale almost porcelain skin, and piercing green eyes. She was gorgeous. She spent her entire life being praised. Her parents, a lawyer and a doctor, made her dance until she broke her ankle, and sing until her vocal cords gave out. Her A+ grades did not come with ease, she would cry every night trying to understand math and science. She would express herself through writing, only to find her almost illiterate remarks revolting to every teacher who glanced at the page. Yes, she cheated. She cheated on every test, every quiz, and every essay. Poor Mary went to college and became an artist. She couldn’t paint, she couldn’t draw, but she could take pictures. She took pictures of everything she saw. 2+2 didn’t matter in a picture. She understood balance, shadows, focus. She understood pictures. She liked to photograph people the most. She was successful and began to work on projects, her first project was to capture humanity. Mary moved into a small apartment next to the “Sweet Cinnamon Bakery.” The first night people slept in the bakery, she felt inspired. She found her project. Opening her window as they entered to get pictures of people in need. I help them with my photographs, she thought to herself as she glanced at the empty couch beside her fruitful kitchen. Sadly, as projects always do, Mary’s project became the center of her hate. Spending her entire life successful, Mary couldn’t understand why the people stayed in the bakery when they could buy an apartment. Her hatred grew and grew until she never wanted to see the homeless again. Except for the mother and her 5-year-old daughter. Something about them made Mary feel safe and warm. Maybe it was the mothers striking resemblance to her mother, maybe it was the child’s soft green eyes. 

Mary looked into the cold, damp room, and watched the mother and child, quietly sleeping on a thin linen sheet, resting above their wooden floor. Light peeking from the gently hinged door fell upon their delicate features. Her pale almost blue hand held the child close to her chest. The child tucked her small feet into the wooden floorboards trying to stay warm in the freezing temperature of the cold winter night. Mary watched the mother and child from her room. Every night when the mother and daughter entered the small bakery, Mary turned towards them to photograph their slumber. She remembered the comforting beauty of hope. She remembered why she photographed people, to understand humanity. This particular night, however, only destroyed the small ounce of sanity and intelligence she could hold onto. She assumed the cracked door was from the sleeping mother’s forgetfulness. This characterization did not hold on for long as she saw a slinky black shadow emerge from the night. Another person? No. No, it can’t be. They can’t be tainted by another sickly person. The stranger needs to find a different place to sleep, they need to find an apartment, they need to stay away from my mom. Mary frantically searched her apartment for her old portfolio. Who is it? Smelly Lenny? No sleep George? She squinted her eyes and leaned into the window searching for the shadow. Her face went numb. She couldn’t see a face, but she could see a knife. She soon realized the dark shadow was much more. A murderer. The thin glaze over her wilting eyes began to crumble as she watched the shadow get closer and closer. The knife in the murderer’s hand moved towards them like a magnet with overriding force. Closer and closer it moved towards them. 

She cried out in pain calling for help. With her camera resting on her neck, she ran to the kitchen, took a knife for protection, and headed out into the cold winter. Running out into the street her bare feet and frozen silk pants fluttered in the frosty wind. Her porcelain face turned red from the wind slashing against her skin. She slammed the door open as she stared into the empty room, no trace of blood, no mother, no child, nothing. Suddenly, a drop of blood dripped down her collared silk shirt. She watched as the small drop collected into 2 drops, then a puddle, then a river. Like an ocean of blood, it formed pools at the bottom of her feet, and she began to see the mother and the child lying on the floor. Fearless and quiet, the mother and daughter lay, even though there is a knife in her hand. She is the shadow, she is the murderer. Dark and cold. A single cry. A foul stench filled the air. A camera clicked. A single flash of light. A shovel. A grave. A thump of more hidden bodies. A match ignited. The smell of burning linen filled the air. Ashes collected. Blood wiped clean. Red and blue lights flashed. A window creaked open. They enter the empty room. She cried as she watched through her window. She washed the blade, standing up straight so the camera doesnt get wet. She can’t even feel the weight of the camera around her neck. Must be the adrenaline… It’s not the adrenaline. Her tears seem to stop as the cold chill of fear shakes her body. The camera lays bare on the ground below the bakery window. Snow falls slowly onto the camera, coating it in a thin white layer. Mary watches the camera from her apartment window. Will the cops look out the window? Will the snow cover the camera enough before they do? I need that camera. I need to finish my project. No one can know what I’ve done