vanilla cake -- d12 -- wip

[presto]

vanilla cake Flour cakes my tapering, pale hands like a sticky pair of gloves. It's not only there, but it dusts over my cheeks, dying my skin even paler than it was before. My round face contorts and my skinny arm rushes to my sharp nose to block a sneeze. But I have that satisfied feeling I always have right after I finish a cake and put it into the oven. Midnight darkness filters in through the windows, and the only thing that guides me is candlelight. A lot of candle light. Because I swear, if I burn another cake again, I am going to be so angry. But I won't really need the candles for now. I blow them all out, just in case my pyromania gets to me again. At least I have found a non-destructive way to light things. I tie a blindfold over my blue eyes. They always said it was what made us so alike, my sister and I. Not our blonde hair, even though it is so unlike the rest of the family. Besides, she always wheres it up. I tend to let my curls hang loose at the shoulders. But right now, I have it up in a ponytail to make sure nothing gets in my hair that much. I tend to be a messy baker. Of course, father wouldn't approve of my little experiments. Sometimes they do turn out horrible. But I think baking is in my blood. I grab a handful of something, and I have a slight temptation to peek under my blindfold and  skip the whole process. But I feel crystals in my scarred fingers; sugar. And I identify the rest. It has come easy over the years, and I quickly take the cloth off and see if I'm right. And, like every other night except for the first week I started to do this, they're right. So I blind myself again and start grabbing handfuls of flour, shaking them out until the weight felt just right. I would do that same with the sugar and other ingredients as well. And then I would mix and mix and mix. Meanwhile, the cake behind me was starting to give off a sweet aroma that made my mouth water. I remember when I was little, baking with my mother. She taught me blind baking. That was when I had to go on my tiptoes to reach the counter. Now, I am 5'9. My slim legs don't have any trouble reaching the table. I still remember she would let me lick the spoon. And I have a slight urge to dance around, flexing my slender, light body like I used to. But, I think the candles are still a little warm, and these floorboards are really creaky. Sometimes I think they're going to cave in. After I feel like I'm done, I have to wait for the other cake to finish baking. So I sit, delicate shoulders sagging with contented exhaustion and stare at my arms. They are still there, of course. Those little white lines from lighting so many fires. I wonder how many times I have scorched myself with matches or burning coal. Many, many times. I would count them, but they're so thin I would have to touch them. Whenever I touch them, I feel that searing pain again. That's why I like to roll up my sleeves. Not just to keep clean, but to keep away the pain. I hear a small beep and go to retrieve my cake. Delicately, I frost it. I have always liked frosting cakes. It's making an edible piece of art, and you can feel little bursts of creativity in it as you eat it. I decorate a  little part with chocolate frosting, glaze some part of it in lemon icing, vanilla buttercream and so on. Taking a knife, a slice small slivers of each flavor. My light footsteps sound up the stairs and I deliver each slice to it's respective, sleeping owner. And then I go downstairs to begin baking and light candles all over again. Nights like these makes dark half moons under my eyes. But I wear them like a badge, because it's what I love to do. I don't like being alone. I honestly don't know what I would do without seeing a face everyday, or having a friendly conversation. I've always been a people person, waving or smiling to strangers on the street. I tend to be social and outgoing, advertising for the bakery sometimes, but mostly just making friends. I don't like making enemies, and I never go out and think to myself: I'm going to make everyone hate me! Honestly, why would anyone do that? I don't take any pleasure in grudges or scowls. They're pretty much useless. Of course, I've never been extremely popular or been in one of these large friend groups. But I've at least managed to stay in good terms with everyone, or mostly everyone. Being friends with everyone is impossible, I know. And, to be honest, some people  There is one word that I know the exact dictionary definition. Pyromania; n; an obsessive desire to set fire to things. That's why candles are everywhere, lined against my windows, tediously proposing a fire hazard to the old window panes. We were all born with it, all the Cakes. Abby, Lem, Chocolate, Velvet, Ice, Blackout. And me, too. Ever since we were born. If I don't let it out, there's something in my chest that just concaves. It's hard to breathe, hard to think straight. I simply stiffen up. Of course, I've gotten more of a hold, satisfying myself with said candles. My childhood wasn't very eventful. It all started in an okay house ( for Twelve ) that was constantly full of sweet scents and maybe a tad bit too much of smoke. Chocolate is my twin, even though we aren't very alike, aside from our appearance, perhaps. I can't exactly remember who was born first, but it's not like either of us really care.

[/presto]