Pepperoni is out to get me.  The little bastards scattered on top of my sumptuous pizza are death in dots.  Melted cheese may entice me to taste one of the tiny morsels, but I know better.  They will be my downfall.

When I glance across the table to Mom, she cuts away at her fat slice of pizza and all its cheesy goodness while blissfully unaware of the death that may soon await me.  The fat and oil from the oven have burnt the tips of some of the pepperoni, its smell curls around the curve of my zit-covered nose.

There is a gentle mumble about the restaurant as it steadily fills with people the closer it gets to dinnertime.  And yet, it does not escape me that none of these strangers gasp in horror on my behalf. No one jumps in to intervene, pulling the pepperoni from its cheesy trap in my defense.  But I suppose no one will since Mom doesn’t make a move to do so. And oddly, neither to do I. Instead, I just stare at it, fork and knife in hand. When I finally cut into the pizza, I make sure to avoid any and all of the meat dots.  But I fear they have contaminated the rest of the food regardless. Its fatty juices could have been leaking into the crust, poisoning it while I was mindlessly staring at the slice.

Pepperoni is cunning.  Like I said, it is clearly out to get me.

“Planning to eat, Moll?” Mom asks, placing a chunk of her own pizza in her mouth.

I don’t reach over to slap it away because I know hers isn’t poisoned.  I know that it has not been tampered with or tainted. But I know mine has.  The question is why and by who? It is a mystery I have no intent on solving.  My only resolve is to push my plate away.

“I’m not hungry,” I say.  

It is a simple and easy excuse given my condition.  Despite the fact that my stomach grumbles in defiance of my paranoid mind, I do not take a single bite of the pizza.  Curiously, something chimes in the back of my head. A tiny red flag waves itself in my mind begging to be hailed. But something muffles the flag’s cry.  The ridiculous notion that I will die if I eat this pepperoni pizza permeates. It echoes through the unreasonable recesses of my mind, consuming all my thoughts.  True, it is the same pizza I have eaten dozens of times before. But this time is different. I know it is. If only I could make Mom believe me.

Something is wrong.  I feel the red flag flap with a hurricane’s force begging to be seen.  And yet, something else smothers it. A stillness of certainty settles the flapping flag.  I know I will die if I eat this pizza.  My mind numbs the longer I continue to watch the treacherous food.  Pepperoni doesn’t care if I almost have my bachelor’s degrees. It just makes all reason slip away.  The meat doesn’t discriminate against anyone.

“Are you okay?”

Mom’s voice dances over the top of the dome, the invisible bubble that has nestled over my mind.  When my eyes unwillingly move from the pizza and land on her face, they take in her concerned gaze.  Brows slightly knit together in unspoken questions. Her lips are pulled into a small frown and she has stopped eating her pizza, though I don’t know why.  Hers isn’t poisoned. Mine is. The flag stirs once more as my eyes shift back to my pizza.

“Yeah,” I say, not looking her in the eye.  “I’m fine.”

-Mollie Williamson

Mollie Williamson attended Saint Mary's College of California double majoring in Art History and Women's Studies in 2013.  She then received her Master's in Women's Studies from the University of Alabama in 2014.  Mollie currently lives in the Bay Area of California and works at a high school library while also following her dream of becoming a writer.