The death of Ester McMillian

This is the story of how Ester McMillian died face down on her kitchen floor on a very ordinary Saturday afternoon. 
     And what a gorgeous Saturday it was; the sun was making its first appearance that week. 
The temperature was warm enough that Ester could open her windows. She loved the smell of fresh spring wind. She also loved everything neat. Not in an obsessive way; she was simply passionate about everything being in its place. This required an extreme amount of effort, the evidence of which, radiated in her lower back. But Ester didn't mind. 
    Each room in her house not only had unique color coordinations-that all matched- but each room had its own distinct name. 
Ester McMillian lived in a middle-class thousand-square-foot ranch. 

    The cool spring air invigorated Ester and she chose at that moment to go into the kitchen and heat a baked potato for lunch. She may even eat on the back deck if the weather is agreeable. Ester truly disliked insects and saw them only as filth, something she disliked even more. 
    She turned her tiny electric toaster oven to 450 and proceeded to scrub a potato in the sink. Ester had read that potato skins were good for you but she knew they were dirty too.  After exactly 180 seconds of brushing it under hot water, Ester grabbed the peeler. 

    Hovering over the garbage can made her back ache. Every time a peel landed on the tile floor she winced. Ester would now spend the afternoon mopping.
    Once done wrapping the potato in foil and setting a 35-minute timer, she placed her soon-to-be lunch in the toaster oven. There was just enough time to wash the peeler and mop the floor before it was done. 
Although Ester did wash the peeler, she never did manage to mop the floor. 

    You see, Ester cut her index finger with the peeler while she staring out the window and more precisely, her neighbors. It suited her just fine. She didn't like the Walker family. Never had she witnessed them clean their gutters or pressure wash their driveway. And she watched them a lot. 
    As she turned from the sink holding her bloody left finger up, Ester noticed a small black smudge on the wall above the garbage can. Not being the kind of woman to ignore a smudge, Ester stepped closer for inspection. It was at that moment the horsefly on the wall decided to leave its spot and buzz away. 
Ester jumped back in utter fright, losing grip of her bleeding finger and the ground beneath her. 

    You see, on that exact tile in Ester's kitchen lay a wet sliver of potato skin- which lodged perfectly to the heel of her shoe. 
    As Ester fell to the floor she reached out for the counter but missed. She was successful however in leaving a long streak of blood from the edge of the counter all the way down the cabinet doors. 
It was an awkward attempt at stopping a fall by a woman who hadn't broken a sweat in years. 
Sweating was dirty after all. 
    The potato peel propelled her left foot forward, and her upper body leaned backward to make up the difference in balance. That was also when she failed to catch herself. But it was the moment she learned quite how heavy her own head was. 
    She'd thrown her head backward with such a jerk that she couldn't stop her body's trajectory. Perhaps it was the sliver of potato skin, or maybe the weight of Ester's head because she didn't land on her butt. 
    She went head down on the tile floor and for all it was worth, there was a solid "thump" to announce her death. Laying there sprawled out, head cracked open, Ester looked like an over-ripe melon with its juices oozing out. 
    Her finger had stopped bleeding and more flies dotted the walls at the smell of fresh cooking and blood. 
    The oven had been a cheap gift from her neighbor. Michelle Walker even told her it had a self-cleaning timer. Ester never tried it though, not trusting anything proclaiming to be "self-cleaning." The timer would ding when it was done, but the oven itself wouldn't turn off on its own. 
    Ester's head stopped bleeding and there was a loud ding. The spring air blew in helping to spread the fire that ate through Ester McMillian's home. 
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And the only thing her neighbors could think to say was, "what a mess."