The Kitchen by Tysolna
	I walked into the kitchen. The knives stood out as I reached for the milk. Through the window that apparently hadn't been washed for a long time the sun tried to reach the oven in which a lump of roast meat was moulding quietly. The dust fell off the upturned glass as I took it and tried in vain to clean it. The milk came out of the bottle in great big lumps and looked at me from out of the glass, daring me to drink it. I put the glass down and took the blackened, crumbly toast out of the toaster, reaching for the refrigerator door. For the first time in what seemed to be months the light shone into the inside of the fridge, and the mice hurried to get out of the light, leaving only the plastic containers of various foods behind in which they had built their nests. Clearly, this was no kitchen to have a healthy breakfast in, but then I didn't have much choice. Ignoring the milk and the mice, I gingerly bit into the toast, the only edible thing I'd found so far. Then I remembered the larder. There should be some canned food there, probably overdue, but I didn't care much about that. As I tried to open the larder door, the handle came loose in my hand, leaving crumbling wood on the floor. The door broke down easily, unsettling a great cloud of dust and much scurrying of mice. I examined the contents and was surprised to find some unopened spam and canned fruit. Sitting down carelessly on the dusty kitchen floorboards, I opened the spam and started to eat. Munching happily, satisfying my hunger at last, I looked at my surroundings more closely. The knives still stared at me from the wooden cupboard into which they had been stuck in a random pattern. The dust lay over everything except the mouse tracks on the floor and the bones that lay beside the kitchen table. Somebody seemed to have been killed in this kitchen, months ago, and the mice had gnawed the bones clean of any meat left on the body. I wondered idly what had happened here, who the bones had belonged to, where the murderer was now. That it had been murder I was sure, for I had seen the mess when I came into the house. Somebody had broken in, killed the person in the kitchen, stuck the knives into the cupboard, robbed the place, and fled. On a Sunday, presumably, with the roast still in the oven. I opened the fruit and ate them, too. Standing up, I brushed off my clothes and, with a last look at the shining knives, I left.