This is an original and unpublished flash fiction story by Cliff Hansen. (C) 2024.

Francis was always the first to Wednesday night support group. Though he never spoke more than “hello”, “goodbye”, or other such minuscule niceties, he was there without fail before the group started with a box of fresh homemade muffins and coffee. He struggled to maintain eye contact for more than a second or two before shyly looking away, and would go out of his way to sit by himself after politely encouraging everyone to have a muffin, of course. I didn’t worry as his behavior was perfectly normal for a mental health support group such as ours. Francis was considerate: he provided lactose-free almond milk even though I was the only one who would drink it. Despite his introversion, his love language was clearly giving, so we all accepted the snacks he brought in with gratitude.

I don’t remember how long he’d been coming to Wednesday night group, but Francis never missed a session. He was there long enough that he was a necessary ingredient in our circle. Geoff would talk about his struggles with alcoholism, Kiantha would self advocate for independence to leave an abusive boyfriend, Angela had recurring migraines that cost her a good job, and occasionally I would talk about my wish for acceptance from my distant parents who had never seemed to trust me.

Francis, for his part, listened quietly and attentively. Every time it was his turn to share, I’d ask if he wanted to talk, and every time he would say one word: “Pass.” We’d move on. His silence was just part of how our support group functioned.

Sometimes after a meeting, I’d catch myself humming that old nursery rhyme, “Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man? Do you know the muffin man, who lives on Drury Lane.” But I never pushed Francis to open up because it can often take a shy or emotionally injured person a while before they’re ready.

As a therapist, I try not to anticipate someone’s diagnosis or experiences, because doing so would only be a projection of my own experiences or preconceptions. I’d trained too long and hard to fall into that trap. The only clue I ever had was one time Francis was wearing slightly shorter sleeves than usual, and I could see burn scars covering his right arm as he poured poured almond milk into my coffee. I had a faint recollection I’d read something important about someone with burned arms, somewhere in my studies of psychology, but nothing came to mind and thought was fleeting. Recovery and healing must come on a person’s own time. But when Francis finally shared his story, it was far from anything I anticipated.

Today was like any other Wednesday group. I was finishing up some of my notes for a brief activity I would lead on self-reinforcing behaviors. I nodded to Francis as he arrived his usual few minutes early and began arranging the snack table. Today’s muffins were pumpkin and he carefully sliced each one in half, one for each of us. Francis poured himself a cup of black coffee and made me one with almond milk and two sugars just the way I liked it. He brought it to me politely and then sat quietly at his usual place in the circle, watching me emotionlessly as I sipped on the hot beverage. Before long the others had arrived, and we began our meeting.

I put what was left of my muffin back on its plate, and led everyone in a brief meditation followed by my activity. Then it was time for people to share. Geoff went first, as usual. We’d been trying to work on his inclination to dominate too much time in the group, and I could see he was making an effort to let someone else volunteer to speak first, but everyone was so used to Geoff leading, they were silent until he spoke. Geoff had fallen off the wagon again and discussed his shame but also recognized that backsliding was part of the recovery process.

Angela spoke next about how excited she had been about a job interview at a company she really wanted to work for, but the day of the interview she had a splitting migraine which caused her to miss it. She feared she would never get a job again. Though groups such as mine seldom provide solid answers, they are a proactive form of mental exercise to practice positive thinking, focus on our goals, and explore how the past affects the present.

When it was Francis’ turn to speak, he said “okay” catching everyone off guard. Kiantha instinctively began to talk because she was used to Francis passing. Embarrassed, she looked away and focused on eating her muffin. Francis took a sip of his coffee, and spoke with a confidence that was counter to everything I’d come to expect from him over these past months.

“I guess like most of us, I’m ultimately here because of my family.” He said, scratching at the waxy surface of his coffee cup with his fingernail. I leaned in, attentive, curious what he was finally going to say after months of silence. With my experience leading support groups it could be anything.

“My biological parents died when I was quite young. A fire in the home. I am to understand it was an accident, these things happen. I was an infant, so I have no memories of them or the fire, but I guess I was quite lucky to have been pulled out when I was. Sometimes I remember a faint lullaby, and I wonder if that was my mom, but perhaps I’m just making it up in my own mind.

“Anyway, I was fostered by a couple who I am told loved me quite deeply. They couldn’t have children of their own until one day against the odds they did. I do remember their love, but I mostly remember how they loved my brother more than me.”

There was a lump in my throat as I listened to Francis speak. I couldn’t understand it, but I was quite uncomfortable. I had heard clients speak of killing pets and even acts of rape and pederasty and I had gotten through those discussions, so why was I so uncomfortable with the fragment Francis had said so far?

Francis continued, avoiding all eye contact with me or any of the group. “My brother was a monster to me. Though I was older, he would never let me forget who the real son was. He would beat me up and then I would get punished for provoking him.”

I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, and nervously began tearing at my muffin, eating it quickly as a distraction as my amygdala churned out military-grade flight or fight chemicals, yet I was also desperate to understand where my anxiety was coming from. There were answers here.

“One day, I couldn’t have been more than six or seven, my brother poisoned me. Put some rat poison or something in my food. I remember getting my stomach pumped at the hospital and after that, my awful brother telling me that I should thank him for the lesson he’d taught me to not eat just anything.”

Many of my clients have shared episodes of sleep paralysis where they were conscious but unable to move. I was fully awake, wanting to run but paralyzed in my seat, my body forcing me to listen to everything Francis said.

“Sent to the hospital poisoned by my own brother wasn’t the worst part. As fosters, my parents had never actually adopted me, and seeing the hatred their flesh and blood child had for me, they decided it was easier to throw me away that day. I was sent back into the system, never having a home or feeling a family’s love again.

“I ran away, spent many of my teenage years homeless, bouncing between the system and living on the street, doing whatever drug came my way. But then one day I realized that I was letting my bastard brother win: he had started the process of poisoning me and with each injection I was just finishing his job. So I found my way out. I utilized public services, got myself some scholarships and got a degree in chemical engineering, and then a PhD. “And wouldn’t you know it, I actually made a small fortune when I sold the chemical company I founded to an…anonymous investor…after my discovery of a colorless and tasteless poison that can withstand, say, the baking temperatures of a home oven.”

Geoff dropped his muffin, crumbs still on the corners of his mouth and Kiantha was motionless with fear, holding hers still in the air.

“Don’t worry,” Francis said looking at the circle with an air of genuine affection. “Although it takes several months to build up to lethal doses in the system, the poison is a binary one and without its catalyst it is completely inert and harmless. The funny thing is, I could never figure out how to make the catalyst flavorless. It always had a faint almond flavor. It’s a good thing that I remembered my brother was lactose intolerant.”

Francis looked me dead in the eyes, and I looked away quickly, unfortunately casting guilty eyes on my almond milk. “I wasn’t trying to kill you,” I said with resignation as the adrenaline was replaced with acceptance, “I was a kid…I just trying to get rid of you and it worked! But I spent my entire life wondering why my parents didn’t trust me, why I heard Dad once say they’d given away the wrong one. I didn’t know what he meant and my entire career in psychology has been to help me learn how to deal with something didn’t remember any of until now, I swear!”

“What a privilege to be able to forget what I’ve had to live with my entire life” my brother said, “Now listen to your older brother and finish your coffee.”

The support group circle ran out screaming but Francis and I just sat there. It turned out I had known the muffin man all along.

The end.

The Muffin Man by Cliff Hansen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0