Birthday Cake

By Naomi Labbé-Baddeley

My dear friend René walks up to me holding the traditional delicacy while singing the ceremonious song. Her body is restricted by my powder blue dress. Her slimy brown hair was entangled in the zipper, waiting to be ripped out. Her confection is sloppy, a white blob ready to be toppled.

I can see her hand twitching inside her red gloves. Under the smell of hot sugar, is a hint of fresh spring. Her slender arms place the cake in front of me and under the thick layers of cream I can see sprinkles of pink raspberries. A handful of vomit climbs up my throat as I absorb a whi of smoke coming from my father’s cigarette.

“Happy Birthday cupcake” my father says in between his long expirations. As his hand leaves his mouth, a string of saliva stretches gracefully.

“Go ahead, blow your candles darling” my mother adds as she points her Nikon camera at my face. Her left index placed a breath away from the shutter button.

If I do so I will die. Rene will take my place, my room and sweat in my polka dot sheets. The cake’s sweet icing droops onto the wooden table. The very one my dad made from my childhood safe haven. Iknow her alltoo well. After I blow out those candles, she will make me cut a piece and I will have to eat it. The tender berries will slowly descend my gastrointestinal tract and party with my digestive juice. When my body least expects it, they will attack my blood pressure and squeeze my airways. Only after swallowing, will I taste the forbidden fruit. Then, it will be too late. Her crooked smile paralyses my entire body. Her chapped lips mouth a message of encouragement. Her stolen heals click forward and she places a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon Ju, your candles are melting” my dear friend says.

My mother clasped her camera's lens and slowly turned it to the left, leaving me cornered. “Smile” she asks insistently.

My cheeks contract to the best of my abilities but all I can see in the reflection of her non-symmetrical glasses is a plastered look of terror. My coarse hair is spiraling, attempting to escape imminent death.

The cake’s lifeless shape deflates and the candles are now seats for my last wishes. Maybe ifIletthe candles disintegrate into the mushycake, theywon’tmakemeeat it. My nails grip the table’s border, and my left pinky plunges into a puddle of honey leftover from my mother’s breakfast.

“Blow the damn candles!” my father says, choking on his own breath.

The icing is now splattered far from its original body, and I can see seeds sitting still complicit.

Imustfindanexcuse.

I can feel her manicured nails pressing into my trapezius muscle. If I refuse, she will probably just take the cutlery and end me right here. I look back and I catch her glaring down at the row of forks placed in order of heights. The smallestisprobably thesharpest.

The only source of light comes from the 20 cramped candles. They’re glow was quickly lessening, and I could see my own shadow towering over the cake. WhatIamthinking.

Rene’s hand softens and I finally swallow a gulp of saliva. I look up to my mother’s camera, fill up my lungs to the rim, and slowly bring the room into complete darkness.