*Greetings*
This is my entry to @owasco and @freewritehouse’s **Pop-up #wewrite contest**. Details [here](https://steemit.com/freewritehouse/@owasco/a-pop-up-wewrite-contest)
 
https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2019/03/28/21/50/rust-4088121_960_720.jpg [Source](https://pixabay.com/es/photos/%C3%B3xido-puerta-antigua-bloqueo-4088121/)
## The Prompt
# The Sandwich

"Ugh! The bread is soaking wet! Bread is not supposed to be soaking wet!" he snarled at me as he spit a soggy mouthful of half-chewed peanut butter sandwich into a tissue. I stood at attention next to his bed. He handed the sodden and heavy tissue to me.

He was now vegan, grain free, nightshade free, lectin free, phytic acid free, and deaf to my feeble protestations. He was not free, however, from his acutely tuned palate, which was maddeningly different from mine.
He had requested a peanut butter sandwich. I knew meeting all his new diet criteria would be a bitch, but I rose to the challenge. I had to.

I chose a very small ten dollar loaf of 'bread' and bought it. I bought some raw peanuts. I shelled the peanuts. I soaked, sprouted, and dehydrated the peanuts. After very lightly roasting them, I ground those peanuts into peanut butter. I then very carefully smeared the freshly ground peanut butter onto the somewhat normal looking bread. I made sure to get the peanut butter to the edges just like I had learned in home economics class long, long ago.

I knew how to make a proper tea sandwich.

I now spent my life trying to make this man happy. I signed up for that didn't I? Wasn’t that my reason for being? To make this man happy?

Well, he was not happy with that sandwich.

<img src="https://steemitimages.com/1500x871/https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmUzYupyiqXfdHSGw7s6BBoVB15GL9ZvhUPnWoaEveXTiQ/Power%20House%20Creatives%20Logos%20FINAL.png" alt="Power House Creatives Logos FINAL.png" /><br/>
 
*[My continuation]*

To be honest, he was not happy with anything lately. But I was not going to let a stupid sandwich get on my way. I was even more stubborn than he was. He knew that.

I could have left him many years ago if I had wanted. But I had turned him into my self-inflicted punishment for having destroyed his soul and having turned him into the monster that he became.

He was not happy when we met, that’s for sure, but that was not entirely his fault. He had a lot on his plate. Far from helping him overcome his issues, I became a new issue; one that exacerbated the old ones and put him on a path to uncharted territory.

I made him describe his ideal woman and I made sure I became that woman. I made him describe what bothered him about his wife and I made sure he would find ways to make her pay for that. When things got out of control and she left him, I tried to become his new center, to comfort him and show him new ways to be happy.

But he already had a center and that little girl became an obstacle I needed to get rid of. That’s when I decided to push him into constant conflict with his ex-wife until he felt that he would never be happy with his daughter unless he got rid of her. I made him plan the perfect murder and then, unbeknownst to him, I made him get caught.

 That removed the little girl from the equation. Thirty years of separation can do a lot to relationship. During that time I visited him frequently and made sure he would devote his imprisonment to becoming an exemplar, to show the system that he deserved a second chance. That was the beginning of his developing a mind-blowing discipline to get rid of any human imperfection and refine any human quality.

With each obsession came new demands. He had become a maniac. Thirty years away from the world can do a lot to a brain. They say dealing with old people is like dealing with children. It is more so if the old person needs to re-learn the world he is living in. I pampered him to the limits of what’s morally tolerable.

He got obsessed with finding his daughter, rebuilding his lost relationship. He kept bringing little girls like the-thirty-year-ago her, who he kept breaking when they refused to reciprocate his love. I helped him clean the mess once and again until I convinced him he would just get himself locked for good this time.

That’s how I got him into occupying his mind on food and healthier alternatives until people forgot about the missing girls. Maybe he would become famous and his daughter would read about him and come meet him, I told him. I regret that now. Like his previous obsessions this one makes me go to the verge of madness.

But I know what to do now. I’ll get the right ingredients. A better loaf of bread that will not feel soaking wet, the right peanut butter mix that will hide the secret ingredient. This will put his mind at ease and my tormented soul at rest. 

<img src="https://steemitimages.com/1500x871/https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmUzYupyiqXfdHSGw7s6BBoVB15GL9ZvhUPnWoaEveXTiQ/Power%20House%20Creatives%20Logos%20FINAL.png" alt="Power House Creatives Logos FINAL.png" /><br/>
# Thanks for your visit

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