The Birthday

Most people never remember their early childhood birthdays. Most aren’t memorable. 1

If you happen to be born into money, they probably consist of fancy circuses in the huge sprawling backyard, or a party at Disneyland. Everyone in your social class seems to attend, adults to socialize and show off to the other parents, and the littler kids to have the pony rides and get free, expensive party favors. Or so I’ve heard.2

If you happen to be included in the majority of children who don’t live that life, birthdays are not as special. Perhaps you have drunken parents, who never even recognize the fact that it’s your birthday. Then the day is as bad as all the rest, just another day in the 365 days of hell these kids shouldn’t have to face at all, let alone at their young ages.3

Or perhaps you just have the normal, cake-presents-some relatives kind of day, the day that reminds you that you will never have the birthday of your dreams like the aforementioned spoiled rich kids. These birthday girls and boys shouldn’t be focusing on what they want their life to be, but rather on what they should pray they never have to face like the children of alcoholics and drug users. 4

Of course, by now, you must be wondering what category my childhood birthdays fit into. I bet you’re dying to ask the question. Trust me, you would not like to know. Before you decide to proceed with this story, be advised that I do remember my birthdays, but one sticks in my mind the most.5

I was eight years old. It was December 12, 1997.6

The day started like any other. I woke up about eight o’clock, the sun streaming in through the yellowed lace on my small bedroom window. It was very cold, and I pulled my blankets around me to quell the icy air.7

Through the walls I could hear the other members of my family getting ready to start their separate days. My mother usually stayed in bed most of the morning; she had never held a formal job in her entire thirty-seven years. My six year old brother was always taken to school by my father on his way to work, and my older sister was picked up by her friends from the high school she attended.8

It took me several minutes from the time I woke to realize that it was my birthday. I got out of bed, keeping the covers around my shoulders, and opened the door. There was no talking from downstairs, and I crept out of my room silently, my bare feet making no noise as I went to the kitchen. 9

My brother, Brandon, and my sister, Jane, were at the kitchen table, eating dry cereal. They were both in their pajamas, their hair ruffled from the night of sleep. My dad had a cup of black coffee on the counter, but I didn‘t see him. My brother smiled at me as I walked in, but no one mentioned my birthday. In fact, no one said anything to me at all. I sat in one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, and there were no noises except for cereal crunching and my brother’s scribbling in his notebook.10

I stared at the digital clock on the kitchen stove. We all had about half an hour to make it to our separate schools. My little brother followed my eyes, and he jumped up from his seat, his chair screeching across the floor. He abandoned both book and bowl, and sped out of the tiny cramped kitchen and up the creaky carpeted stairs, pounding on each and every step. 11

As soon as he made the first noise, my mother began to yell.12

I looked to my sister, who rolled her eyes and sighed. They had started this race-to-the-bathroom routine when my brother first started school. Usually, she raced after him and they fought the entire way. 13

For the last couple months, though, that had stopped. He went upstairs alone, and she followed behind slowly, because of the fact that she was pregnant. 14

Her pregnancy only added to my mother’s rage. She was always upset in the morning, and every noise disturbed her and put her through the roof of madness. She hadn’t stopped yelling, even after my brother slammed the door to the bathroom.15

My sister got up and carried both of their bowls to the sink, then started to trudge upstairs. I started to follow after her, and my footsteps made noises as I walked across the cracked kitchen linoleum. Right as I started onto the first step of the stairs, my father came from the living room and lightly grabbed my wrist.16

“Well, Catharine, my little Indian, happy birthday!” He said to me, his worn face cracking into a smile, his forehead crinkling. I smiled at him, and motioned to the stairs with my hands. 17

He understood me instantly, and shook his head, “No, no, in order to celebrate your birthday, we’re all taking a break. I’m staying home from work, and your brother and sister aren’t going to school.” He grinned at me again, and then yelled for my brother to come down. I heard the bathroom door open, and my brother ran down the steps. Jane, however, took advantage of the opportunity and locked herself in the bathroom.18

Brandon came down, whining as usual. My dad smiled at him as well, but the smile seemed strained. He took my brother by the hand. “Since we are all taking a day off, I figured that I would take you to the basement to see what I’ve been working on. “He winked. “I know that you will really enjoy it...” My brother’s face lit up. My father had been telling us for weeks now that we were to stay out of the basement.19

They left me standing alone. I sat down on the step, elbows on my knees, clutching my raggedy blanket to me. The bathroom door creaked open, and I heard my sister walk to her room. I closed my eyes, taking in the noises everyone takes for granted; the hum of the refrigerator, the patter of rain drops outside, and the tiny, barely noticeable noises of the house shifting below me.20

The silence that was never really totally complete was broken twice at once. I heard my brother shriek the floor below me, and I heard my sister’s shrill scream from above me. I was stunned for a few seonds, before getting up and running to the basement. Carefully, an awful, unexplainable but expected cold ball of fear dropped in my stomach. Peering through the small space between the white painted door and the doorframe, I saw my father come up the concrete stairs. He was alone. When he saw me, he smiled.21

This was a separate smile, a haunting smile, a smile that made me feel as if I was looking at my worst nightmare. I ran to the front door, and I heard him behind me.22

“Cathy, Cathy, Cathy, where are you going? There’s no reason to be afraid.” He called after me. I crawled into the space between the front wall of the living room and the ratty sofa, and held my breath. Even as I did it, I felt foolish for hiding from him. I was just about to come out of my hiding spot when I realized that he wasn’t looking for me. I heard him ascend the stairs, his hand sliding along the rail. He was whistling. I heard noises from upstairs, rattles and thumps.23

The cold feeling in my stomach returned stronger than before. I wanted to go upstairs, to see what was happening, but I decided to find my brother instead. Find. As soon as I thought the word, I felt another pang of dread. I crawled out from behind the couch and ran to the basement door. I threw it open, and ran down the stairs as fast as I could.24

The single light was flickering, and the cracked cement was cluttered with papers, trash, and beer bottles. There were smears on the floor.25

My brother wasn’t hard to find. I was a smart child, I wasn’t naive. There wasn’t a possibility of naivety in my house. Nonetheless, a piece of me was shattered forever.26

He was on the floor, sprawled out awkwardly, at an angle I knew at a glance wasn’t normal. His hair was slick with blood, and there were marks on his neck. His eyes were the worst. They were open, staring, stuck in that moment of terror, the second before everything ended for him. 27

Oh, Brandon. I threw up, my blanket dropping to the floor. I clutched my stomach, but the sick feeling was as strong as ever. I heaved, again and again, finally dropping to the ground hard, my knees making a cracking sound as they hit. The tears were coming now, slipping down my cheeks and dropping onto the cold floor where my brother’s body lay. I picked up my threadbare blanket and draped it over my brother’s body.28

Silently, I rose without a sound and started to head upstairs. I fainted before I reached the second step.29

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“Catharine! Cathy!” Someone was lightly hitting my cheeks. I opened my eyes to see the face of my father. He was smiling that awful, crazy smile again. “Oh, good to see you, good to see you. I was starting to get worried,” he said. I sat up quickly. He had carried me upstairs to my sister’s bedroom. He reached out and placed a hand on both sides of my face, forcing me to look at him. “Listen, Cath, you know I’d never hurt you, right? You know I love you.” I stared at him, horrified.31

“Say it, say it, come on, tell me.” He shook me, his eyes wild. I shook my head, trying to get him off me. He let go, and I tried to get up. 32

A glance over his shoulder was all I needed.33

It was like the basement all over again, except this time it was worse. Twice as worse. My sister was on her bed, her sheets stained, the covers draped over her, spots of red spreading. She was looking at me. She wasn’t dead.34

I started to gag and tried to get past my father. He blocked me, and another part of me broke.35

My father grabbed my wrists tightly. “You love me! You will do as I tell you! Understand?” He looked into my eyes, squeezing my wrists. I nodded quickly and fearfully.36

“Good. I knew you were my favorite for a reason. He laughed quietly, but it was insane all the same. “Okay. Now, you have to do what I tell you. You have to listen, do you understand?” I nodded again, tears burring my vision. I felt nauseous.37

He pressed a gun into my hand. The cold metal burned my fingers. “You have to shoot her,” he said solemnly. His words did not, could not, match his face. His toothy smile was wide. “Go on, she wants you to do it,” he urged. He pulled me to my feet, and led me to the bed. I let him, feeling dead. I could not comprehend what was happening. I felt overwhelmed by emotion. 38

My sister moved her lips, but no sound came out. My dad barked out a laugh. “See, now I bet she knows what it’s like to be you. Funny, isn’t it?” His dark eyes stared into mine. “DO IT!” He took my hand, pointed the gun at her. “I’m so tired of waiting...” He whined.39

“I don’t want to have to hurt you. I will, you know. She’s dying anyway, why kill yourself? That’s what you will be doing if you don’t do what your father tells you.” He grew angry with me when I continued to stare at him blankly, tears wetting my cheeks. “Go on and do it, you little bitch. You really don’t want to mess with me.” 40

I wanted to scream, now more than ever, I wanted to sob out loud. He shook his head at me, and then, wordlessly, he moved my hand so that the gun was pointing at my own head.41

“Come on, Cathy, you can do it. It’s not hard, it will only take a second. It’s all I’m asking.” He frowned. “Or would you rather do it to yourself?” He waited for me to react. My eyes were wide. 42

“COME ON! You little mute bastard, it’s the only way I can trust you! You have to be with me in this!”, he half pleaded, half screamed. He roughly moved my hand, pointing the gun back at my sister. "This house will finally have silence..."43

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He made me clean up his mess. My eight year old mind, laying in bed that night, decided to do what an eight year old would decide to do if they had been hurt so bad in every way. My eight year old self decided to get revenge. For everything. For my sister, my brother, my ruination...45

Laying in bed, I decided to do to him what he had done to us. I decided to take another step in the cleaning process. I crept out, silently, of course, stopping only briefly in the kitchen and in the garage. 46

I burned down the house.47

My birthday was spent cleaning up the worst mess anyone could ever imagine, cleaning up all I had ever believed in, cleaning up my childhood, cleaning up my sanity.48

Does that answer your question?49

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My Comment on Itsy Bitsy Spider, by Electric- Blue50

I really, really liked this story. It was a prime, perfect example of how what we see about ourselves, both in who we are and our opinions about our outward appearances, are commonly very different, and definitely harsher, than what the people all around us think.
It shows how much we are driven to perfect what we look like, thinking that we will never measure up no matter what, and that we're never good enough. How can we be expected to see ourselves for who we are?
Also, you conveyed how looks from the people around us are commonly taken out of context, since the main character of the story accused her doctors (that were trying to save her life) of picking on her like she has always picked on herself. I understand this a great deal, because if you believe things about yourself, however negative, most people always, always believe that others share the same opinion.
The last line was just simple and great, a short sentence that brought pangs when I read it.
Overall, the story was brief but filled to the brim with feeling. From the beginning there were terrific descriptions, and the language you used was excellent.
Great, great job on this, and good luck in the contest. = )