The Prophecy Fulfilled

“Please don’t let the power go out,” I chant as I continue my run on the treadmill. I live about twenty miles from the nearest town in the middle of nowhere Oregon. The storm outside is raging and where I live the electricity is spotty on breezy days. I am actually surprised the power is still on…and now it isn’t. “s**t!” I trip almost falling face first over the panel of the treadmill at its sudden stop. Rubbing my sore and tender stomach I grab the flashlight I keep nearby and head out the kitchen door in the rear of my little cottage to start the gas generator. Even though the generator is large enough to run my cottage for a minimum of three days, I only have the kitchen appliances and lights hooked up. Since the storm interrupted my workout, I decide to make use of the extra time and get a head start for work. I heat up the oven and gather my ingredients to make blueberry muffins. While mixing the batter I hope the storm will pass quickly. I do not want to drive through this monster on my way to work. Two hours later I have enough muffins made for the morning breakfast rush at the Brownsville Diner plus a few dozen extra to sell from the bakery display case. I still have some time before I need to shower so I start a few batches of dough for the sourdough and Italian breads that will be used for the day as well. I set those aside for the first rise since the room is humid from the storm and warm from the oven. Luckily, at that moment the power flicks back on as the storm subsides, so I turn off the generator and head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. It is now 1am. The lukewarm water is refreshing on my skin as it cools me down after the heat from the kitchen as I wash away the sticky sweat from my half-finished workout and baking spree. I shave my legs and underarms, wash my hair and then dry off. I check over myself in the full-length mirror, I hate the extra pounds I can never seem to shed that hang around my stomach and hips that give me that over-sized muffin top on pants that are just a tad too tight. I have long legs with thick thighs, the word carved into the top of each thigh shoots a twinge of fear through me. From those ugly scary scars, my eyes travel up my body, they land on the other thing that I hate, along with my thighs, is another scar that I can never have repaired or covered due to the severe damage done. The scars are puckered and bright red, I even had a tattoo artist tell me that no ink will ever cover these hideous reminders of my past. I continue my perusal of my body, one good thing about being overweight, my breasts are full and perky. Lucky no overweight sagging there. You can see the firm muscles in my arms from my workouts and self-defense classes, under the slight flab that is there. I really hate being overweight but no matter how much I exercise, eat health-conscious meals I will never drop those extra pounds, I have a malfunction in my body somewhere. All I can do is keep the pounds at bay from stacking up, hopefully. I take a serious look at my face. It’s full, a little bit of a double chin, which shames me. My nose is like my mother’s, it fits my face, ever so slightly upturned but petite and sits over lips where the bottom is fuller than the top lip and appears a bit like I am pouting all the time. I really need to smile more. My eyes are a misty green with modest brown brows and thick lashes. Probably my best physical feature, other than my hair. It’s long, a rich brown that settles in natural waves and gives me fits when it is as humid as it is today. I quickly brush out my hair, pull it up into a bun and continue with the routine of making myself presentable for work. Not like I see anyone other than the staff as I spend my time in the kitchen baking for the day’s desserts and breads or in the office working on the financials. One final glance in the mirror to make sure all is right, the knee length skirt and purple tank top with the black swirls looks nice together so I head to the kitchen, box up the muffins, bread doughs and store them in the trunk of my little blue car. I run back in to do a quick clean-up of the rest of the kitchen, who likes coming home to dirty dishes? I drive the 20 miles into Brownsville and park behind the diner to unload my car into the kitchen. I do a pound down on the bread dough and put them in the proofer for the final rise. I start up the numerous ovens I will be using and then put the muffins in the display case. I pull out ingredients for the banana bread for the banana bread French toast that is a new favorite with the local townsfolk as well as for the brownies and 3 types of cookies that we will offer. I know these recipes well and my mind wanders as I mix, pour or scoop and bake. My excitement was electric. I unlocked and entered the Chicago suburb bakery through the back kitchen door. I immediately turned on the radio and started bumping my 16-year-old body to the music (yes, I was overweight, but I still loved to dance). When I was first hired to help prep in the kitchen at the age of 15, Anne, my boss, saw potential in me. She said I had a natural baking talent, so she took me under her wing and taught me all she knew and shared some of her secret recipes with me (which I secretly changed to make my own). I was now 16 years old and legally allowed to be here without adult supervision, or so she kept saying. I was here opening the bakery for the first time on my own. First, however, I needed to start baking before it's time to unlock the doors for the day. Checking the list, I see I am to start the bread dough for homemade bread, 3 different kinds, brown bread, Italian, and focaccia. Easy enough and fast enough to do and set aside for the first rises. Next are the muffins. A variety including apple cinnamon, blueberry, banana nut, chocolate peanut butter chip and a chocolate-chocolate chip. One thing Anne was always amazed at is my capacity at remembering recipes and the speed at which I can get the batter together and poured into tins, pans or whatever baking dish I am using. I pulled out the pie dough that was made yesterday and prepped the various fruits for the pie orders and a few extra for the display. It was an hour till opening, I had accomplished much, Anne will be proud of me! I turned to shut off the timer and remove some bread from the oven and froze. A scream tore unconsciously from my throat – standing before me blocking all my exits stood 3 men, all dressed in black with the hoods of their hoodies covering their faces. Hand over my heart I stuttered “We are not open yet and I do not have access to the safe to get any of the money stored there.” All I could think is they were there to rob the bakery. I was wrong. The larger of the men stepped close to me, sniffed my hair then grabbed my face in his powerful hands, squeezing until I was whimpering in pain. My self-preservation and fighting instinct kicked in and I grabbed the knife that was on the counter behind me, I started swinging it out blindly in front of me. To my surprise the giant in front of me hissed out in pain as his hood fell back revealing a long gash along his left cheek from his ear to his lips. All I could see was his livid face, black hair falling forwards over his black eyes filled with rage. Blood was oozing down his face from the gash. “b***h” he growled and forgetting the knife in my hand I froze again in terror as the large man grabbed my head and slammed it into the counter. Nothingness. I snap back to the present as I hear the front door unlock and Sandy and her husband Tim enter the diner. Sandy is the head waitress and Tim is the breakfast cook. They also happen to be the diner and bakery owners. Quickly wiping my tears and drying my eyes, I step out front to say good morning. “Good morning, Adara” Sandy says as she pulls me into a hug then takes a good look at my face. She can tell I have been crying but I give her a look that says I don’t want to talk about it now. I go to Tim and put my arms around his belly for a hug that he grumbles about. Sandy laughs then looks in the display, “Oh my, you have been a busy little baker this morning!” “Well, the power went out again, cut my workout short so I got a head start.” I explain. “Well, it’s to our benefit,” and she grabs a couple of blueberry muffins for her and Tim. I already started a pot of coffee in the kitchen, so I grab some mugs and doctor them up how Sandy and Tim like it before we get down to the morning breakfast preps. I watch Sandy as she whips and mixes batter for the French toast and slicing the banana bread for easy dip and grill for made to order. She is a pretty woman, not so petite but fit with the right kind of curves. Dark blond hair that she has cut shoulder length and styled with that natural wave that causes most women to be jealous of the way it frames her face. By the start of the service, she will pull it back in a cute bouncy ponytail. She has a heart shaped face and soft brown eyes. She fits perfectly next to Tim. They make a striking pair. How they ever ended up owning a bakery and diner in Brownsville instead of the front of a magazine I will never know. Tim is also fit and has a smile and laugh that is contagious. You can never stay in a foul mood when he is around and laughing. He loves to tell corny jokes too. His hair is a short blond curly mop, and he has rich chocolate brown eyes. They have become my family this past year in this little town in Oregon. Sandy and Tim are the only two people alive that know my whole story and what brought me here. I trust them so completely. Breakfast is moving along at a fast pace, as it usually does on Saturday mornings. I step outside to take a 10-minute break and to cool off a bit. My face is flushed and sweat beads my forehead. I wipe it with the rag I brought out with me and take a long drink of ice water. I relax for a few more minutes on the picnic table that is set up for employees. I head back in, I only have a few hours left till noon, and I can head home. I step into the kitchen, a scent fills my nose, something that shouldn’t be possible over the smells of cooking and baking let alone the fact we are in late summer and nowhere near late fall yet. The scent of fall leaves and wood burning fires. My favorite season and autumn smells. It’s intoxicating. I'm drawn to the front of the bakery searching for the source. Sandy grabs my arm to get my attention, “Hey Adi,” a worried look on her face. I look at her blankly, “Yeah, what’s up?” “I have been calling your name for a few minutes now, did you not hear me?” “Nope, I guess not.” The only reply I can offer. “Well, now that I have your attention, before you leave for the day can you make another 5 dozen or so buttermilk biscuits? We are running low and I want to have roast beef tonight for people to get a couple of biscuits with it.” “Sure Sandy,” I reply still a little dazed. I walk back to the kitchen and shake my head to clear it before starting on my final task of the day after I pull out the last of the pies from the oven for the day’s lunch and dinner desserts.