Tea Time

(Reader discretion is advised. This story contains instances of violence, blood, tragedy, and foul language.)

It is tea time. The highlight of Mr. O’Brian’s morning: his alarm wakes him at 6:00 AM sharp. This is usually the only time he finds solace—something special before his 9-5 slog, before the black suit and tie carry him away and drown him in paperwork. 

“Ahh!” he exhales with satisfaction, placing his two pale feet delicately onto the soft brown carpet of his bedroom floor. “Tea!” he shouts. For Mr. O’Brian lives alone. 

No significant other, no children, no pet, no one—save for at times, his hallucinations. Birthed from a tragic accident in his childhood, they resurfaced as life grew more difficult, as work became more of a burden than a blessing. Nonetheless his new medication has been helping with those hallucinations since yesterday morning. Helping keep his 6:00 AM bliss holy, as it always should have been. 

Mr. O’Brian smiles and seizes the newfound energy the thought of his medicine provides. He stands and marches his half-naked body downstairs and around the corner, into his modern kitchen. Its stark gray walls are dressed in white cabinetry, complementing the line of dark and dormant coned light fixtures overhead. At the center stands a wide, cool gray marble counter top island, holding onto a sizable maple cutting board. The board’s style marries that of a wooden case beside it, one filled with a full set of stainless steel kitchen knives. 

Everything in the center of the room is lit by paradisiacal orange morning light, beginning to peek through the large white crossbeam window across from the island, opposite Mr. O’Brian. Right below the window hangs, to the man’s wholehearted delight, five unique tea cups, dangling above his shiny, gas-powered stove. 

Mr. O’Brian already knows which cup he’ll pick: the one with a small cartoon bee happily buzzing around the words “Bee Happy, Tea Happy.” The very thought of it caused the man to place his rather hairy arms on his hips and give out an elated sigh. 

He stands in front of the stove, whips out his old trusty blue teapot, fills it, and slams it atop the burner—cranking the knob to its highest setting.

 “Excellent!” the man exclaims, slapping his hands together with childlike glee.

He jumps to the right and opens a shiny chrome refrigerator door, but remembers something.

Mr. O’Brian shuts the door and pauses to stare at the calendar sticking to his fridge, today is his birthday. Not having to deal with hallucinations yesterday made him completely forget the trauma connected to this day—not that he cared to remember his own birthday anyway. 

The Butterific Amusement Park, he thinks to himself, remembering his mother’s voice, his brother’s excitement, and a small, yellow, fluffy bear toy dressed in blue overalls—held tightly to his chest. Mr. O’Brian smelled the popcorn and heard the screeching metal of a roller coaster derailing. He felt Charlie The Butter Bear’s soft embrace, almost like it was right next to him. 

These sounds and feelings shouldn’t be so real, but Mr. O’Brian CAN feel the ground trembling at the sheer disaster which took his family away. His mind is racing. I was too small to ride, it wasn’t my fault, and the medication should have kicked in by now! 

His pills. The very medication which made his morning tea so exciting to begin with…He had forgotten to take them this morning!

 A severe chill runs up his spine until it fills the rest of his body. With all the speed of a frightened animal, he abandons the fridge, runs up the stairs, tears open his prescribed bottle, rushes into the bathroom, and downs a small white nondescript pill with a large splash of water. 

“I’ll be just fine!” he proclaims, panting. His family screams. The roller coaster crashes. His eyes are clenched shut, his face dripping wet. Then, the noise stops. His breathing returns to normal, and his eyelids snap open. Staring at him in the mirror are two dark eyes clinging to the sharp features of his very own face and thinning auburn hair.

 Mr. O’Brian is staring at himself, alone. At the same moment he hears the teapot whistling, no, begging for his attention.

 “I’m coming baby!” he says aloud, forgetting his worries. It was tea time! Mr. O’Brian smiles once more, storms out of the bathroom with determination, and makes a triumphant procession down the stairs. The man’s large white t-shirt dances around his small frame and plaid boxers, and he is content—absolutely certain that nothing will stand between him and his delicious tea.

 In fact, he’s already picked out the flavor he wants in his head: peppermint. 

Delightful, he thinks, smiling from ear to ear all the way downstairs. 

Upon turning the corner, he looks where the teapot should be, and sees a large, dark figure blocking the sunlight. Mr. O’Brian flicks the light-switch on to see a giant yellow bear in blue overalls staring right into his very soul. The teapot screams, Mr. O’Brian screams, Charlie The Butter Bear screams. 

“Why don’t you want to see me anymore, buddy?” it asks in a low friendly voice, its frame unnaturally large, filling the space just behind the kitchen island.

“No!” Mr. O’Brian howls—“Not my tea time! Go away!” 

Charlie’s ungodly, button sewn eyes remain motionless. “Now buddy, you don’t want to disappoint your family.” The creature’s unnaturally long arms reach across the kitchen island.

“Their deaths make me so sad. I just want to give you a great big hug,” it speaks earnestly through a placid smiling face. Mr. O’Brian is frozen in fear as the bear continues, “Come on over buddy! A buttered popcorn a day, keeps the bad thoughts away!”

The teapot screams louder, pleading with Mr. O’Brian to enjoy a hot cup and forget the hellish nightmare of Charlie The Butter Bear. It motivates him to say something.

“Never!” shouts Mr. O’Brian, his face contorted in a wet, foul grimace. “Go AWAY! YOU are not REAL!”

“Ohhh that hurts, I know you took the medicine buddy,” groans Charlie. Ignoring Mr. O’Brian’s frustration, “but you can’t run away from death!”

Mr. O’Brian’s eyes grow large—as large as the saucer he longs to put under his piping hot cup of peppermint tea. He licks his lips in anticipation of it, his dark beady eyes dart from the bear to the teapot, then to the knives on the marble island between them, as the teapot’s cry grows incessantly. 

“YOU RUINED MY TEA TIME!” Mr. O’Brian yells trembling with fury, as his fear turns into unbridled rage. Charlie violently swings his monstrous arms behind him, sending the man’s beloved teacups crashing onto the hard tile floor.  “You don’t need these, YOU NEED ME!” it cries out.

“Noo!” Mr. O’Brian wails, in tandem with his teapot as Charlie’s bulbous head begins to spin around and around.

“I bet your mom would want you to give me a great big hug right now!”

At this moment, Mr. O’Brian loses all semblance of humanity, and in a voice more terrifying than the abomination before him roars, “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY TEA!”

 Mr. O’Brian throws his half naked frame across the wide island’s counter top. His knees slam into the cutting board as he grapples for the large set of knives, toppled by the sheer force of his indignation. 

The teapot swoons at Mr. O’Brian’s bravery as he grabs a blade and crashes onto Charlie The Bear’s fluffy form, stabbing away, ripping the cotton out of him! “BEE HAPPY, TEA HAPPY, CHARLIE YOU BUTTER BEAR BASTARD!” he raves! 

For a moment Mr. O’Brian feels invincible—destroying his dreadful past, ridding himself of a memory that has terrorized him for so long.

 The screaming teapot now becomes a cheering coliseum, and Mr. O’Brian is gladiator, champion, soon to have his prize! 

That’s when the medication kicks in, and Mr. O’Brian becomes aware of his body—more sweat than clothes, or is it blood? He thinks, a cold shiver creeping over him.

The sun is no longer orange but a fading golden yellow, slipping away from the frame of his large crossbeam window.

 His eyes look to and fro as his grip threatens to make his kitchen knife a permanent extension of himself. The teapot next to him simply demands Mr. O’Brian turns it off now. It has seen enough, the stove itself presents the time, 7:01 AM. 

Mr. O’Brian is late for work now.

 I killed Charlie, he thought…for tea time. 

The man wipes his brow. What was tea time for? he thinks, dropping the knife. It clatters to the ground, and with it, Mr. O’Brian crumples. As he closes his eyes, he finally finds what he was looking for all along—a simple escape. 

“Tea time,” he whispers softly, slinking into a deep sleep. “Tea time.”