Threat Blender- by Chelsea Stephen

There it sat on my counter, taunting me, threatening my sense of control. Its sharp snarly shining teeth a menace in my kitchen. I’ve gotten in the habit of never keeping sharp items in my kitchen. I only ate with spoons, resorting to eating soft foods that required no serrated edges to pull them into pieces. Even my plates and bowls were plastic so as not to risk breaking them into tiny volatile shards.

But then it arrived in the mail. The box. To Margery, sender unknown. A gift of some kind? No. I wasn't inclined to keep friends so I couldn't imagine receiving a gift. I knew immediately when I opened it that it was a threat. Someone wanted to hurt me. Like a Trojan horse, the box had delivered the blender into my house, intending to inflict certain injury, an invasion to my fine tuned sense of control.

It sat there on my counter, doing its calculated damage. With shaky hands I plugged its electrical cord into the wall outlet. I stepped back quickly and stared. My mind was burning, the kerosene of mania dousing my feverish thoughts, my ears licked by the flames in my head. I went for the freezer, resigning to forfeit my control. No, I needed to put out the fire. This is control, I told myself. Just this and nothing more, I whispered. And I grabbed the pack of raspberries from the shelf. I carefully, meticulously peeled open the top zip lock, and poured the berries into the blender, packing them in. I stopped there for a minute. This is control, I shouted over the fire that raged in my head. Just this and nothing more, I testified, and I reached for the pulse button. I pressed it hard and held it down. The blender pitched and heaved, the blade's shrill scream flooding my mind and subduing my thoughts, my concerns, my fears. The berries juiced everywhere, splattered the clean glass sides of the pitcher, spouting from the top, freckling my tense right hand on the button. I released my finger from the button. The whir of the blades slowed, and I felt my chest swell and sigh. I put my hand inside the blender and squeezed and released the icy cold berry mush that stained my skin purple red. I squeezed again. Just this and nothing more. Maybe one more? Ok, Just one more.

I returned to the fridge, this time resolute. My red right hand had broken free and I watched as it reached past the milk and the yogurt and went for the week-old minced meat. Red and white, slick and coily. Like an accomplice, my left hand helped peel back the wrapping of the dripping minced meat and deliver it to the open blender. Just this and nothing more. I pressed the cold wet meat into the juiced berry slop and felt a tension release from my lower back. I removed my hand, reaching for the pulse button. I pressed hard and deliberate. My teeth massaged at the moist flesh of my inner cheek; the taste of iron on my tongue made me feel drunk. Again that shrill, high-pitched scream of the blender quenched the fire in my head. Meat and raspberries flung violently around my counter and against the wall. Just this and nothing more.  I released my red stained right hand from the button, jamming it in the blender’s cold fleshy contents. I squeezed and released, squeezed and released. I raised my free left hand, and reached for the button. And pressed down, hard and deliberate. Completely in control.