Birthday Party

Among other bodies flailing to music in Kelly Baker’s living room, Killian Blakely stiffly stood, dreading the entire thing and regretting having entered the house at all. Aside from a mild tremor in his hands, he was coping relatively well to being around so many people after so long. As anxious as he was, he knew all too well that his peers were more afraid of him than he was of them. After everything, he couldn’t figure out why Kelly Baker, of all people, would have wanted him in her home. If she’d invited him as a joke, he was feeling far more pathetic than amused. If not a cruel joke, then it was pity. Maybe this invite meant people were starting to come to terms with the past–the parts he could not hide–and that his exile was over. It was a possibility, but he knew better than to start hoping.

Kelly’s mother poked her head into the living room, cupping her hands around her mouth in preparation to shout above a blaring party playlist. “All right, hey everyone! We’re going to do cake now. Kelly sweetie, come and—where is that girl?”

Before the birthday girl could emerge, Killian dropped away from the small horde, praying that everyone’s focus would remain on the announcement of cake. Aside from general uneasiness, he felt a growing urgency to get away. He scrambled into the small hallway bathroom and swiftly swung the door shut behind him. With his heartbeat now drumming in his chest and his hand stiff on the door lock, he forced his lungs to expand and allow him a jagged breath of air. Lately, Killian had taken to grounding techniques to avoid panic attacks, and he desperately tried now to remember which step was next.

He had been by the kitchen earlier, where Kelly’s mother had the cake already set out with plates and utensils. Five things you can see…. Ugly linoleum, one. Wringing his hands, he'd turned to the living room. Lamp, two. Three, birthday girl. She was dancing erratically and having more of an overstimulating effect than a calming one. He turned back to the kitchen and its perfectly still linoleum. Four… There were the plates. Five. Instead of a cake knife, a sharper one.

Get it together, Killian demanded of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Get it together, damn it. He could hear Kelly’s voice from the kitchen now. The shrill notes were somehow just what he needed. Four things you can hear. That was one. He resolved to stay barricaded until he was sure everyone had picked up a piece of cake and dispersed from the kitchen, and he hoped that in the meantime no one would walk past the bathroom and know he was in there.

“Oh, Killian, where did you go off to? You missed the cake,” reported Kelly’s mother when he reappeared in the kitchen half an hour later. She looked at him with a concern that her grin pasted on to disguise her wariness of him did not match. She glanced over her shoulder to the other kids gathered around a newly compiled assortment of gift bags in the living room. “Why don’t you go ahead and grab yourself a piece and we’ll get started with the presents. Meet us in the living room, okiedoke?”

Kelly’s mother stood in front of him, waiting for some response like it was her ticket to move on, but Killian’s throat had closed up and all he could give was a nod. Satisfied, Kelly’s mother turned away to gather some old red confetti scattered on the living room carpet, leaving Killian to fend for himself.

He wanted so badly to refuse cake, to opt for some ice cream or something instead. What reason would he give? He didn’t want to raise any more eyebrows.

To the left of the dessert was the stack of plates, and Killian tried his best to hide how much he was shaking as he reached out his hand to grab one. He was grateful he’d worn a black shirt to the party and hoped that his deodorant would hold up against the sweat he could feel pooling. A small flame on the stove across the kitchen was heating a pan of food and felt entirely too hot from where he was standing. Three things you can smell….Is something burning?

With the plate in a white-knuckle grip, he glanced at the knife. It had been smeared with red velvet cake from the other kids cutting their pieces. He hated red velvet, and especially now it was making him nauseated. Some foul smell he wished he was not so familiar with was also seeping into the kitchen air.

Because he had to do it some time or another, Killian reached for the knife to cut the cake. It was a knife much larger than he imagined necessary. Between reaching for it and it being suddenly in his hand, Killian had not noticed his hand actually reaching the knife nor his fingers curling around it. He was startled by this, and by reflex he almost dropped the knife. He brought his second hand to cradle the first so between ten trembling digits he was able to wield it. Two things you can touch….

Where is that smell coming from?

He felt a twinge of sickness arise in his stomach, but he fought the urge to gag and lowered the knife to the dessert. Focus, two things you can touch. Floor. Knife.

The moment he dropped the knife to slice through the red velvet victim, he was overwhelmed by that smell—the smell of someone burning, so invasive it was on his tongue—and the sickness in his stomach rushed up and out of him, and onto the buttercream. He cast the knife clumsily onto the table. From the room over, a great shuffle of his peers forgetting the pile of presents went on for a moment then fell silent as they arrived in the kitchen to stare at the foul scene before them.

Killian realized, with an instant relief that often comes with vomiting, that the foul smell was but a memory. He collapsed against the kitchen counter, and as black dots invaded his vision, the sound of Kelly Baker’s stupid voice was near:

“Holy shit. Killian just threw up on my cake. Mom, Killian just threw up on my cake.”

One thing you can taste.