The kitchen in the morning. A clear sky outside, hints of spring in the air. A day like any other in April. A pair of hands, slender and young, working quickly, preparing the salad. A window, pushed open, allowing the cool air to flood inside. Nearby, a bowl of vegetables picked from the garden only an hour ago. A phone in the next room, ringing; quietening down after several attempts. An old clock chimes somewhere in the hallway, the steady shuffle of rhythm as the hands pull open a drawer and pick up a knife.
11:00am.
Time to begin.
* * * * * * * * * *
“FREEDOM!”
The mad carrot makes a run for it and cartwheels smartly over the chopping board. The knife comes down behind and the crazed vegetable gives it a swift kick before scarpering, seeking refuge behind the breadbin. Catching his breath, he uses the clever contours of a lost teaspoon to see what The Hand is up to.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Fingernails drumming on the worktop. The knife nearby, waiting, its blade dulled with the juice of an unfortunate beetroot.
The carrot thinks for a second, curious as to what he should do next. Visions of a heroic nature flash across his simple mind – perhaps a sacrifice would work, pushing himself upon The Hand's blade, taking the enemy by surprise so that the others might make a run for it.
No, he tells himself firmly. I will not die today.
Peering round the corner of the breadbin, he assesses the situation. The Hand is still there, waiting patiently. The other vegetables in the bowl are looking nervous; the cabbage in particular is shaking like a leaf, whereas the three potatoes are huddled together, scared out of their skins.
The carrot feels dread eating away at his orange innards. The Hand will not wait forever. Any moment now it might snap and either reach behind the breadbin or attack the others. The carrot finds himself unwilling to take this risk. Tossing the teaspoon at the bowl, he catches the attention of a quivering piece of broccoli. Signed hand movements act as correspondence between the two, the broccoli's great green head shaking as the carrot relays his final instruction.
“Do it!” He cries, his face contorting into a bizarre grin as he sees the frightened vegetable spring to life.
The carrot says a silent prayer for the sprout that is plucked from the masses and tossed over the edge by the apologetic broccoli. It wails as it bounces off the floor, one life cast aside for the good of the masses. The Hand watches its descent and pounces, scrabbling for its prey.
“GO, GO, GO!” The carrot cries, waving his arms madly at the bowl, urging the rest of the salad to make a break for it. The remaining sprouts, now a disorganised and emotional mess, spill over the edge and roll towards the breadbin. “Yes, come on! And the rest of you!”
The broccoli, seemingly overcome with guilt, hesitates. Conflicted, he shouts at the others and tells them to stay. The carrot demands they escape while they still can.
Nobody moves.
The rhubarb is first to crumble under the pressure, throwing himself over the edge of the bowl and making a run for it. This split second of uncertainty is enough time for the enemy to regroup.
The Hand appears over the edge of the worktop, remnants of sprout-carcass still wedged under its talons. The broccoli, caught between freedom and fear, doesn't see the swing of the knife as it comes down above him, slicing through his bushy green head with ease, hitting the work surface with a loud thwack.
The sprouts wince. The death of the broccoli is enough to spur the others still sitting in the bowl into action, but it is too late. The Hand sweeps up the bowl before any of the others can launch themselves over the brim, and places it on a high shelf. The carrot cries out, unable to hear the squeals of the trapped garden produce. He calls out to the sprouts and rhubarb, asking that they hurry, too afraid to run to them himself.
Too late. Much too late for the disorganised sprouts.
The knife is ruthless as it cuts through the tiny vegetables; one, two, three, chop, discarded. The Hand pounces on the mutilated remains, peeling the skin from the backs of the dead sprouts. The rhubarb is crushed and left to bleed across the worktop. From his hiding place, the carrot cries great orange tears. The plan he has toiled over for so long is a failure. He is alone now, crouched behind the breadbin, watching as The Hand desecrates the bodies of his friends. He knows its attention will soon shift again, and those ghastly fingernails will come clack-clack-clacking round the side of the breadbin.
The concept of death is too distressing. He knows what awaits him if The Hand is victorious – skinned alive and then boiled until there is nothing left, chopped and eaten by the scavenging beasts that The Hand serves endlessly. No, that is not the end for me.
He knows he only has one chance to escape.
A fierce scream – a battle cry, ringing out for the warrior vegetables that had fallen. The carrot runs for his life, gambolling over the groping fingers, avoiding the tip of the knife with a backflip worthy only of the finest slow motion replays. As he runs he thinks of the broccoli that faltered, the poor cabbage and lettuce and onions stranded high up on the shelf. He thinks of the sprouts, crushed by the cruelty of The Hand as it rampaged – their horrible loss, the brother sacrificed to give the bowl a fighting chance. The carrot wails as he reaches out blindly for the window sill, skirting the attack The Hand mounts as it reaches for his ankles. He hauls himself up onto the precipice and stops, staring down into the murky abyss that is the outside world.
He can't see the vegetable patch from here, the neat rows where his family is still held hostage by The Hand's co-conspirators.
With his back to the window, the carrot finds himself staring into the jaws of The Hand. It has abandoned the knife, favouring the personal approach instead. The carrot feels all fear drain away from him. Adrenaline takes its place, surging through his small frame as he stands facing the merciless killer.
“You don't frighten me, Hand. You never have.”
It lunges at him, the sharp claws tearing at his flesh, seeking purchase as it tries to drag him back to the bowl.
No use.
Scrunching his eyes tight, the carrot howls at his tormentor. Thinking only of the friends he is leaving behind, and praying that their end might be quick and painless, he throws himself off the edge and into the unknown wilderness below.
* * * * * * * * * *
11:04am.
An unusual start to the day. The window is pulled shut, shoulders are shrugged and the bowl is retrieved from the shelf. Washed gently under the cold tap, a lettuce is the first to be prepared, followed by an onion. Reaching out with a flannel, the mess on the worktop is wiped away; the remains of a piece of broccoli, some rhubarb and a handful of sprouts thrown in the bin. In the next room, the phone is still ringing. A bird calls from the tall tree outside. A reminder is made in a notebook to pick another carrot from the garden once everything else has been done.
Outside, beneath the window sill, behind the sparse cover of a withering shrub. A carrot lies in the dirt, knocked out of the window only minutes before.
.