We Like The Broken Ones

Flash Fiction

What’s your trauma sauce?

Bad childhoods are required. You can’t have a broken one without a bad childhood. It adds too much bitterness if they were loved. You want sweet? You want soft? Then they gotta suffer early. It’s like baking a pie. You need the perfect crust. The tasty foundation.

Trauma is also the sauce, you see? Trauma sauce. Like whipped cream. Or caramel drizzle. You don’t like sweets? Okay, what’s your trauma sauce? Marinara? Cripes. Whatever. The point is that someone suffering from chronic post traumatic stress disorder since they were a kid is optimal.

Yeah, depression’s good, too. Anxiety? There’s a lot of those. I guess it’s okay if you like electric lemonade. Zappy citrus. Not my vibe, but anxiety is in everyone. It’s like corn syrup, you know? Fucks up the real flavor, but whaddaya gonna do?

Therapy? Yeah, that can ruin a broken one. Some of ’em heal right up. Others do okay, but they got existential scars. Nah, I don’t like ’em myself. I think scars are chewy and tasteless. Not like the pain that pulses in the soul, simmering for a whole lifetime. That’s de-lish-essss. Yeah, yeah. Like marinara. Man, you got no imagination. Settling for red sauce like a broken one is some sticky plate of pasta.

What? No way. You actually got one in a trap? What kind of broken one did you catch? Wow. Foster care at such a young age. That’s tender. That’s … tasty. Not much meat on those fractured bones, though. I guess you could tag ’em. Put ’em back in the wild till they’re bigger.

Shit. Last call. Gotta get up early, right?

Them broken ones ain’t gonna sacrifice themselves.