Short Story: "It's My Birthday!" By Dylan Day

"It's My Birthday!" A twisted monologue...

Two knocks at the door.

            I’m not ready yet. I haven’t powdered my nose, curled my lashes, donned the red lipstick – I haven’t even brushed my hair! Quickly, quickly, I tug my fingers through the knotted plaits. Another clump of hair falls out. I had a shower yesterday; the floor became a soggy carpet. It’s the stress. It eats away at me like radiation. Or the guilt. My doctor says it’s the guilt. I don’t feel guilty.

            I smooth the Velcro of my jacket and ensure that the belts are all tight. I don’t want anything to fall off – it would be embarrassing!

            My hair is smooth now. Well, as smooth as tawny hay. It reminds me of when I was a little girl, running in the meadow across from our regular, unsuspicious house. I held a buttercup to my chin and sprinted between the grassy fronds down to the river. The water bubbled at the rocks I used to jump across. Who knew that river would become important. Once my friend, turned a traitor.

            If I had a mirror now – instead of these bare walls that remind me of the blocks of a chocolate bar – I would see a haggard creature, not a soft, innocent little girl (the way I wish to be remembered.) I can tell without the mirror because my flaky skin folds sallow from my jaw. In that shower, I scrubbed at it with my nails, like a scouring brush, sanding off layer after layer of grime – or was it flesh?

            I wonder if corpses judge their coffins, or, if they were found washed up on the shore, whether they protest at the damp. I wonder how I will feel.

            I hear the door-handle turning. It snaps like a neck.

I used to catch hares in that meadow, and they’d snuggle in my arms as I stroked their little heads, their ears flopped back, noses snuffling, and then I’d snap their necks.

I wasn’t malicious. I wasn’t hungry. It was just something to do. I’m so bored in here. I haven’t had guests for… I can’t remember how long. What day is it? Saturday. Sunday – my birthday? It feels like it might be my birthday. Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me!

I’m so bored in here. I’m glad to have something to do. Preening myself. I think I look smart now. A little flabby at the edges – I’ve put on weight, or is that excess skin like the wattle at my chin, and I’ve lost weight, so skinny, so thin, so weak? – but smart; clean, too, if you can forgive the grit beneath my fingernails – I don’t have anything to paint them with. I would have done them green – I like green. She had green wallpaper. In her kitchen, she had the finest green wallpaper. I don’t think she liked it very much though because she tore it. Her long, fake fingernails tore down the wall and snapped off onto the tiles. I saw them there, like icicles, next to her resting head.

I’d have liked green wallpaper in my kitchen. Maybe I could have tried cooking the hare – I’ve heard it’s good. There was this French chef on the television – the one with the bushy moustache; the chef that is, not the television (I cackle at this as the door creaks) – who looked a lot like a beaver, a taxidermically stuffed beaver (the kind I always stared at in the museums on the other-side of the river), the French chef gave this recipe of boiled hare with asparagus, and potatoes, and crushed onions. Mmm… that’s making my mouth water – luckily, I have no lipstick to smudge. Nor have I had a decent meal. It’s porridge most days. I used to love porridge: grandpa would pour cold milk around the edge so I could eat that first whilst the rest cooled. But now I hate porridge. Especially the porridge here. It’s either too runny like PVA glue or too thick like dog barf and mushed brains. Don’t ask. The chef here ought to be sacked. I’ve had nicer stays. Never been to the Carlton, but I’ve had better stays than this.

Hers was a good stay. Her bed was still warm. I cosied up, and she kept falling out the edge. First her hand would dangle, cold, then her leg; I would wrap her up warm in the cotton blanket despite her rigid, silent protests.

She had a nice smell. A warm, wintery perfume. The kind that really tickles your nose – peppery even. Like horseradish. Yes, it was like horseradish. Though I’m not sure why anyone would spray herself with horseradish. It was addictive. I held her tight and got high on desire.

Actually, I can picture that entire moment. Her room was like mine when I was her age. Colourful. Full of life. She had this doll with wiry hair; knotted, like mine now. I preferred her hair. She was like a doll in my arms. I dressed her well: her fancy wardrobe treasured many fancy clothes. I made her up white and sparkly. It had been my best design yet. Reminded me of the girl I used to play with in the meadow, chasing her with the buttercup. Only she would never stop running. She had had a cute, playful scream. It was like one of them drawstrings that makes dolls talk. But the doll in the room hadn’t had one. In the bed, she was silent, too. I traced my finger down her white and sparkly outfit. I would like her white and sparkly outfit now. This jacket isn’t very stylish. I want to look my best for my birthday. I haven’t seen anyone in so long.

But now I get my satisfaction as the door opens and the lady in the apron, who I vaguely remember, enters with two burly men. Their arms are like tree trunks. In fact, there was this old walnut tree down by the river that I always said was an angry man with a beard, and these two men look exactly like that tree. It was a wise tree, too: it pointed the uniformed people to the river. Betrayed my secret.

The men lift me up (although, I was already standing, so now I am flying, my legs kicking the air in euphoria.) The men are very strong. I used to swing on the tree exactly like I am now.

The lady in the apron jingles her keys as I am taken to a bare room with a chair. There’s also a bucket of water with sponges. I’m getting another clean.

The men sit me in the chair. It’s cold and smells of bacon. My mouth waters more. I could kill for some bacon.

The tree men strap my arms to the armrests. I don’t like these bonds like the belts on my jacket. These ones hurt. And then the men put a hat on me. It is my birthday. They remembered. We’re going to have a party! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me!

I always have the best birthdays. One time, everyone in the town came – from the postman to the teacher, to her parents – and there were these men wearing funny wigs. They were very exciting: all they talked about was me! We had a brilliant time. Although there wasn’t any cake. Walnut cake is the best. I love it! I used to take walnuts from the old walnut tree – the real tree by the river, not the men. I wonder if they know I like walnut cake. Maybe I should tell them. But when I open my mouth, it isn’t cake that they feed me but a piece of wood. It’s not very nice. Tastes like grandpa’s coffee table. I don’t know why they’ve given it to me. I try to spit it out but now they’re clamping my jaw to it. I can’t move at all now. I’m like a wooden doll – like she was. Like they were. A clean, dripping wooden doll as they sponge at my head. They should definitely wash my hair – so long as they don’t get alarmed when it tumbles out. Oh, there’s some, on my jacket.

The men step back. A priest mumbles something and makes the sign of the cross. They did that a lot at my last birthday party…

Then I’m alone again. But not really: I can see her and the others watching me. They look so pretty, dressed how I dressed them. Their eyes twinkle. But I wish they would smile. It’s my birthday.

Smile!    

For another short story by Dylan Day, see here