Cold Hands And Marble.

If there was one thing that caught my eye every time I went round Eva's house to drop off her shopping, it was her marble rolling pin. You just don't get them like that anymore, well, not in my price range anyway.
It wasn't the first thought in my mind when she finally reached the end of her 92 years, but when that useless son of hers, Tobias, had a clearance sale, I wandered along early to see if I could get it before anyone else. Like cold hands, cold rolling pins make the best pastry.

He recognised me as the girl who helped his mother out, then went back to ignoring me (as usual) so I searched for my rolling pin.
It felt wrong to barter with him so I paid full price and carried it home.
Its weight made my arm ache as I walked along, and soon its coldness seemed to penetrate my hand and arm, sending icy sparks up into my head. I got myself together as I leaned on someone's garden wall, and made it home.
I felt better after a cup of tea, and couldn't wait to make an apple pie.
But the pain came again. I put the rolling pin in the sink and retreated to my wooden one, but this time the feelings didn't abate, and my brain felt as though it was swelling, filling my skull, pushing on the back of my eyes until I fell to the floor in darkness.

As I peered into the black my hands became visible. I couldn't believe how much grime was under my nails. There was scars on my thick, red, shaking, fingers, and the smell of sweat and rough, brown alcohol filled my nose.
As my senses continued to sharpen I became conscious of the roughness of my male clothes, the itchy, clammy fabric. I wasn't me.
I was in front of a blackened fireplace, staring at a few lumps of coal had no hope of warming the room up.
In my hand was a thick leather belt, the heavy silver coloured buckle smeared with blood. I was shaking, full of anger, and getting more and more sick of the sobbing noise coming from the corner of the room. I swung around to see a small boy of no more than five, compressing himself in the corner, blood seeping through the back of his shirt.
There were only a few sticks of furniture in the room, the walls were bare and there was no trace of electricity, just what looked like gas lamps, and rough rag rugs covering the floor.
I had to stop the wheezing and sobbing.
As I stood up, the door opened, and a young, pale woman with a blank but focused face came into the room. I was about to open my mouth and tell Eva that I recognised her, but before I could speak, she lifted the marble rolling pin in her hand, and blackness returned.