Viola and the Fruitcake

Viola stared with wide eyes at the fruitcake.  It was a rectangular prism, yellowish in color, but filled with tasteful looking dried fruit and nuts.  Pineapple, raisin, mango, blueberry, cherry . . . all were little pieces of Heaven, fixed in time by the dense fruitcake. 
Viola’s finger twitched slightly.  If only she could touch the cake.  The idea tempted her.  But her self-control was too developed (actually quite developed for a girl her age) and she looked away.
Oh but if only . . . If only she could feel the gooey texture of the coveted pastry . . .  
Abruptly she swiveled around and faced it once again.  And then she proceeded to fail.  She failed because she touched the cake.  She took her index finger and used it to poke the cake with missile precision, but something went wrong.  Something went very wrong indeed, because she looked down and her finger was stuck. 
She shuddered violently and tugged at her finger.  It was simply stuck.  She might even have to cut the cake to get free.  But in the meantime, while her pointer was submersed in the humid innards of the pastry, she savored the moment and learned what she could of the cake. 
The feel of the cake was nothing incredibly soft, nor was it incredibly hard.  Just like the rest of it, the consistency was average.  
Everything about it was lukewarm.  The temperature, the density, the look of it.  The whole blasted thing. 
And Viola had been dared to taste it.  A shiver ran up her spine.  She used to like Christmas.  Now it was all about the fruity cake of all things.  Forget Santa Claus, food, and presents; now every kid in the household was arguing over the fate of the fruitcake.  Poor thing.  Sometimes Viola had sympathy for it.  She would sit and stare at it, and her thoughts would drive her mad until tears formed and rolled down her plump cheeks.  
What a poor, darling cake it was.  It sat there with subdued dignity, and yet there was something humble about it.  Yes.  That’s what it was.  It was a humble cake.  This fruitcake had certainly had its slice of humble pie, and seemed to have taken it well too.  Maybe that’s why there was a sense of honesty and integrity that floated around it shamelessly like its very own atmosphere.  Humble but proud.  That’s why Viola liked the cake more than any other child in the orphanage.  
Because she sympathized with it.  She was humble but proud.  Humiliated by the others’ disinterest in her, but proud of the way she held herself in the midst of trial.  
Presently a salty drop of emotion formed in Viola’s eye and trickled down.  She didn’t dare wipe it away, because her finger was still stuck, and the moment was bittersweet.  Her heart stopped for a split second when the tear fell onto the fruitcake, because a most peculiar thing occurred.  The tear rolled across the dense texture, and proceeded to tumble gracefully off the front.  It was almost as if the fruitcake was crying, right then and there.  Just for Viola.  
She smiled.  It was a magical moment.  One that she was certain to remember for the rest of her life.
Viola finally succeeded to pull her finger out, and saw with some dismay that the fruitcake now had a large gaping hole in the side.  She felt horrible.  
But the fruitcake seemed to smile at her; it was almost as if they had some sort of mental connection for a moment.  In that second the fruitcake told her it was ok.  Everything would be fine, and it’s not her fault.  After all, it’s not the outward appearance that matters as much as the inside. 
Viola gasped. She’d never dreamed that a cake could have this level of intelligence!  But the cake’s smile was still there when she glanced back down.  It was made up of little bits of pecans, and dried blueberries for the eyes. 
Although her finger was thus removed from the fruitcake, Viola felt like she was still connected to the poor thing.  Their similarities had made them fast friends from the beginning, and she was not about to give that relationship up.  She felt as if the cake had an understanding for her that others could not even touch. And she was certain that the fruitcake felt the same way. 
So she stayed a while and had a mental conversation with the dense, nutty rectangle of cake and fruit.  It told her about its history in the orphanage; an existence full of betrayal and rejection, and she sympathized.  When the conversation turned to the fruitcake’s annual, emotional breakdown on the Christmas Eve of every year; Viola listened with interest.  She knew about the dare that every child in the orphanage took part in, but she never thought it could cause so much hurt in the life of one such fruitcake.  But there it was- the poor thing felt rejected because no child had ever tried a single bite of it. What an utter disgrace for a pastry to suffer. Another tear fell down her cheek, but this time she swiftly wiped it away.   
So Viola sat thinking for a moment.  What if she carried out her duty and completed the dare?  What if she tasted the fruitcake?  People would treat her like a freak.  They wouldn’t touch her or talk to her or even look at her anymore.  Not that they did much anyway . . . but still . . .
At that moment Viola made a decision that would change her life.  She got up, grabbed a fork, and plunged it into the fruitcake.  It seemed to wink at her. She laughed. 
Then she brought the cake up to her mouth and sniffed it delicately.  It smelled completely normal, if not a bit stale.  So she put it on her tongue, chewed it, and swallowed.  The consistency (as mentioned before) was average, and the temperature was lukewarm, but the taste.  Oh the taste! It was as if the ripest fruit, the moistest cake, and the fattiest nuts had all been combined to form the one, grandest pastry in the entire universe.  This was a fruitcake. 
So Viola smiled, and at the sight of her joyous face lighting up, the fruitcake was content. 

Epilogue
The joy of a fruitcake and the smile on Viola’s face made for a splendid Christmas Eve, but what happened the next day was of tragic proportions.  One of the orphanage counselors (dressed in a Santa suit) was waking the children up when he stumbled across Viola’s dead body.  Her eyes were closed, and she looked as peaceful as the morning sun, but he knew at once that she was dead.  
It was said to have been food poisoning, although no one knew the cause.