I could hear the bread talking to me, tormenting me. With every bite they took the sandwich was making a mockery of me. I could feel the particles of the wet bread consuming my nostrils. I was positive I wouldn’t make it out alive, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to put up a fight. 

My whole life, the one thing I feared the most, more than anything else, was toppings inside of two slices of bread. I like to call them tiny slices of the devil, but most people simply refer to them as sandwiches. To be honest, I have no idea why I’m so scared of sandwiches. Something about the mixture of yeasty bread and moist toppings freaks me out. I will never understand the concept of someone truly enjoying a sandwich. They haunt me in my dreams. It’s beyond a fear, it’s a cold blooded hatred. You won’t EVER catch me enjoying a peaceful picnic with a … Sandwich. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even speak that word. So much trauma is attached, yet one day I would have to face my fear when every one of my friends decided they were going to pack a yummy sandwich for lunch. Why would they do that? you may be asking. I could tell they were out for blood. MY blood. 

Freshman year, as I was sitting in English, my last class before lunch, I could feel that something wasn’t right. Considering I’m a psychic, my intuition had to be right. The bell rang, I grabbed my backpack and quickly made a beeline for the door. As I walked down to the cafeteria, I met up with one of my friends. We then decided to stop and get bagels before we had to face our lunch table. As we walked to the table we sat at every day, I could feel my blood start to boil. The whole room appeared to be closing in on me. I had to put on my gloves and gear up for the match of the century. Me against the sandwich. 

As my friends started to pull out their sandwiches, I sat in horror as if they wcould jump out and get me. One had a chicken salad sandwich, while the rest had simple turkey and cheese with mayo. Sometimes simple is the most deadly. I could tell the sandwich was ready for a fight. The sandwiches came prepared to kill me right then and there. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but they would not take me down without a fight.

It was me vs. the sandwich, and the match had begun. Round one started when the crumbs hit the table, I was afraid the reminisce would soak into my skin and take me down from the inside. Rational, I know. This whole time my friends were tormenting me over my fear, yet I didn’t care. I had to keep my head in the game. This was a fight I wasn’t prepared to lose. I could slowly feel my insides screaming out of fear as the sandwich took control over my body. 

You aren’t prepared for what’s next. The worst moment of my life came when the chicken salad sandwich hit my lips. Obviously not by my choice, but by my friends’ choice. She grabbed the sandwich and BOOM, wacked me straight in the face. It was like that moment was in slow motion. I could feel every ounce of bread, meat, and mayo slowly infecting me. I had a feeling I had only a few more moments of life to live. 

I went to the nurse and she told me to say my goodbyes as I likely wouldn’t make it till morning. Which obviously is not over exaggerated in any sense. I wished my family and friends happy lives as I slowly died;, I put up a fight but sometimes it isn’t enough *cough, cough.**.