blow out the candles

The cake plopped on the table is packaged inside a cardboard box, crumpled and tossed around by a jerking driving style unique to Mum. Around the wooden table are Adras, her mum, Slarr, and Ean, her only sybiling which decided to show up for this celebration. They half-chanted Happy Birthday as Mum flipped through her Instagram page—shrieking halfway seeing that her latest picture flopped in likes. Before the cake was to be cut, she excused her with washing dishes—though the sink was empty of plates.  

“So, you’re thirteen this year?” Ean drones.

“Fifteen,” Adras replies.

“All the same to me. Well, let’s go through your achievements and start eating. You’ve not failed. You’ve managed not to get scolded by the Principal for mediocrity this year.”

“I kinda of did fail. And the Principal is going to see me. But Mum, left. We can do whatever.”

In quick movement, Adras opens and cleaves the cakes into rugged slices. Ean’s piece topples over even before it reaches his plate. The moment the cake reaches his plate, he stands and walks away, forgetting to excuse himself. Adras fiddles with her cake in silent, watching the crumbs on her fork. Slarr follows suit. Suddenly, the persisting silence breaks with Ean speaking boisterously into his iPhone X in speaker. “Nah, Tracy’s party was so much more fun. You know she had legit musicians coming from all over the world for a private performance. Then, she also joined them with her solo. The views on instagram, I tell you, ah!”

“Little cunt,” Slarr mutters.

“Maybe you should say it a little louder. That would be a nice birthday present.”   

“I already gave you one.” Slarr gestures to the silver bracelet on Adras’s hand. 

“You can give on behalf of the other three.” 

Slarr sighs and reaches for his cake. Adras smacks his hand away. “Don’t eat that,” she mutters. “It’s probably cake the bakers were praying to get rid off. Expired. Overcooked.” 

She smiles. “Pretty shitty party, right? I guess I beat yours.”

“I didn’t have one, remember?And this...this isn’t that bad.”

“Not half the family’s come. Mum’s busying with Insta as usual. Ean’s stopped being creative with excuses and left. Sure, not that bad.”

Ardas swears between the moment that Mum left and returned, she could learn three new languages fluently. And she only there for a moment, taking a spoonful of cake and retiring to her room. Echoes louder than rhinoceroses stomping suddenly bounce off the walls—Ean finally comes back. He tosses his plate on the table and scampers to the strongest wifi hotspot in the house. It seems no one wants to be around her as if her presence is a noisome stench that lingers in the air. Ardas collects all the plates thrown around the table. Most of them are squeaky clean—for the brats who could not be bothered to turn up! She accidentally bumps into Slarr. Crash! His plate cracks.

“Damn it! I’m sorry,” Ardas mutters.”I’m sorry for this mess.”

“It’s okay—”

“You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to be around me.”

“You’re forgetting I was the one that chose to come.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have. I was only asking to waste my breath.”

Plates all stacked up, Ardas carries them to the sink. She sighs—a mountain of dirty plates rest at the sink, small cockroaches already claiming it as their own. Screw you! She flicks the puny in sects off. She squeezes the detergent which relents like a rubber duck. She turns on the water and starts washing. Her movements are sharp and quick, the rhythm of soaping, rinsing and tossing it on the rack familiar to her hands. Soap. Rinse. Toss. Simple. 

“Washing the plates? Seriously, on your birthday?” Slarr almost laughs.

“I did it last year. And the year before that.”

“People should really start treating you as the birthday girl. I thought Tracy got a trip to Paris for her B’day.”

“Do I look like I have hot-pink hair? I’m not Tracy, you moron.”

Boom! The sudden rumble shakes the house. After she hears, “Ean, hey Ean. Why you falling asleep on me?”, she rushes into the living room to witness Ean, lying on the floor, bereft of consciousness. After slapping him and calling his name several times, Adras deduces he was...drugged. Did Mum give him meds or something? But then why as powerful as this? Slarr flicks his eye at her, his lips pursed. What do we do? He seemed to ask. Ardas kneels down. She stares closely at Ean eyes, flicked them them over his body.

“Sedative,” she mutters. “It was in the cake.”