catharsis- an fff

so here's my 1st fff in too long. rules and examples linked here- get ready for next week if you didn't make this one.
i admit that this was written in a rush (enjoyed the hell outta it, though) and as such i didn't do the research i'd normally do about the physical reaction to what happens in this piece. but it's an idea i plan to explore, so maybe we'll see this event again, with fuller description of what it does to the human body.
big-up the provider of this week's trigger (starter sentence in italics, below) and big-up the provider of the idea i plan to research further; you know who you are.

it was the smell of cinnamon…
she sighed at her involuntary downturn in mood, wondering if he used it intentionally, knowing she’d never escape something so commonly loved. wishing for simpler times, before there were problems that couldn’t be drank+smoked+fucked away, she pulled her scarf a little tighter and crossed her arms in front of her. a step later, she shivered in the depths of her coat at the irony of her posture, considering recent straitjacket and hanging nightmares, trapped as she’d been, geographically and emotionally.
cinnamon lingered in her nostrils and hair, coffeeshop after coffeeshop wafting delicious come-hithers onto the pavement, beckoning with lies of comfort. but she wasn’t swayed. too many promised warmth that they couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) deliver – if nothing else, she had learned that here, from him.
it had been a costly waste of time+effort otherwise, so she had to hold fast to the lessons of experience as the reason for the diversion. she had to hold the memory of lies coming from the least expected source, the never-doubted mouth forming words that would never be supported by action, then forming new words to contradict the old words, never admitting the truth. admitting the truth would be admitting failure, and he couldn’t have that – at the expense of her sanity and possibly her life, he wouldn’t have that.
straitjackets and hangings indeed. nobody needed to interpret those dreams for her.
but she was working on fulfilling a daydream now, walking those cold hard streets. she shook cinnamon from her consciousness and resumed her mental dry run of the next 36hours.
she was already fully packed. her 1 friend was waiting with her baggage and a car for the airport, now she just needed herself and trains on time, both ways.
as she looked up to gather her bearings, she found herself right on track. the station was straight ahead and she could see the big clock telling her she was right on schedule.
she easily made her way through the hordes of christmas fools and boarded, immediately pulling out her book as she sat. she wasn’t interested in meeting people or making friends – these people weren’t worth it and she was leaving this soulless junkyard for good anyway.
she arrived quietly, using her key for the last time, snickering at the knowledge that he never thought to take it back because he never thought she’d use it, abhorring the cold as she did. even what passed for summers there weren’t warm enough, which made sense to her when she saw how coldhearted the people were.
like he’d used her trust in him against her, she’d use his trust in his knowledge of her against him. She silently made her way to the kitchen, and wasting no time looking around got the pot out onto the stove and found the olive oil, extra virgin, of course. she’d carefully considered the pots she knew existed in the house – anything new was too risky – and chose in advance a small enough one to lift and carry one-handed with ease while hot. it wouldn’t do to find herself unable to move quickly, and she shouldn’t need that much oil.
she had to stop herself humming and singing her pleasure at working in such a well-equipped kitchen to such a perfect end, but didn’t stop her smile growing into a grin as the oil began to bubble. she turned off the fire, thinking to herself that this was the righteous consequence of denial, of running away, of hiding and refusing to face one’s demons – they came after you while you snored deep in the night.
she turned on music, knowing he wouldn’t budge, grabbed the tiniest funnel on offer and a potholder, left the lid in the sink, and walked the hot oil to the bedroom. even if she hadn’t remembered the way all she had to do was follow the sound. she giggled at the idea that if not for her imminent intervention, his attempt at hiding would have been overheard by neighbours who fell asleep later than he did, in a matter of days.
she looked down at him in the bed and had her only moment’s pause. not a month ago he was everything.
she shook cinnamon from her consciousness, carefully held the funnel at his exposed ear and poured the boiling oil through it.
she somehow saw but never heard his agony. her mind had shut itself to the pain in his and she simply finished her task, making adjustments for his movement impersonally like she was back in the lab.
then she washed, dried and put away the implements leaving the kitchen exactly as she’d found it, turned off the music and exited the house, locking the door behind her and pocketing her key as she trudged back to the train station, glad that still-falling snow would cover her tracks.
she was early for her train so she called her friend and said she should be on time, ordered a cinnamon-flavoured latte, pulled out her book and waited comfortably. she knew on this trip she’d sleep dreaming dreams of freedom.

walk good.