WHITE AS BONE - Madeleine Elizabeth Tracey
The previously shining sun was now saying goodnight to the world as it sunk lower and lower beneath the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of peach and gold and red. Anyone caring to glance outside would be dumbfounded by the sight, but Dean Sarafand was on a tight schedule, and he was not one to waste time ogling at the setting of their system's star.
Currently, Dr. Sarafand was looking over himself in the mirror of his pristine master bathroom, his scrutinizing olive green eyes not missing the pesky strand of jet black hair that had floated down onto his forehead. His fingers, working as if they were trained micromanagers, quickly pried the stray hair from his skin and swiped it back into unity with the millions of others on his head.
Not satisfied with how bland his skin looked, Dean quickly opened the cabinet above the sink and below the mirror, fetching a container of powdered foundation and another of a deep rouge. He clicked open the foundation, swiping his middle and pointer finger across the powder, covering the digits in the almost chalk-like substance. He then continued to thoroughly rub the foundation into his skin, bringing a missing energy back to life within his complexion. When his skin had become a blank canvas on which he could paint, Dean continued the process by lathering rouge onto his cheeks and nose; building up a youthful glow to his face. After setting the makeup back into the cabinet, Mr. Sarafand looked at himself once more in the mirror, much more satisfied with how he looked.
Turning the left faucet on the sink, cool water gushed out of the neck of the pipe and spilled into the porcelain bowl beneath, devouring the expanse of the bowl like strong waves would a beach. Dean brought his dirtied hands underneath the running water, scrubbing vehemently at his skin until the makeup began to melt off of his hands and into the current of the water, dripping away eerily, as if the now liquified material was blood, rather than a faux method of looking happier than you really were.
After his hands were clean, Dean walked over to the towel rack, the cotton towel hanging upon it white as bone, and began to dry his hands. When that was finished and Sarafand was sure that all remaining liquid droplets were ridded of his hands, he walked through his large master bedroom, down two flights of stairs, and found himself in his kitchen. Taking a deep breath, an almost mischievous smile crept its way onto Dean's face. He felt truly at home when he was in the kitchen; it gave him a sense of control that was lacked in other events he took part in throughout the day.
So, giddy smile decorating his face, Dr. Sarafand began to shuffle through the grocery bags on the center marble island in the vast kitchen, placing each ingredient onto the cold surface. Tonight he would be making vegetable stew and tiramisu. He usually didn't cook too extravagantly for himself, but he had company coming over. A few months back, Dr. Sarafand had performed a minor surgery on an elder man. This elder man had a son just about Dean's age. They met once, hit it off, and here they were several months into the future: having dinner at each other's homes. On that happy thought, Dean got out a shining steel knife from one of the many drawers in the marble counter. As he lifted the tool up, it's metallic surface glinted in the kitchen's light; winking up Dean in anticipation of what was to come. Dean smiled back, and got to work chopping up the vegetables.
After making victim of each carrot, potato, beet, and radish, and placing the dismembered vegetables into a simmering pot of broth, Dean began to work on the tiramisu. The process of making the tiramisu calmed Dean, the previous actions of chopping up vegetables and ridding their bodies into a boiling pot of water had tensed him remarkably so. He took deep breaths as he soaked ladyfingers in coffee and rum, the fire in his nerves dying down with each sprinkle of cocoa he laid upon the finished piece.
