This story may not be fit for all audiences…

Melted ice cream, thickened with time. Filling the paper plate. Small dots of color hoping to be seen through the opaque window covering their party theme excitement.

My fork easily slides through the cake, after cracking the solid layer of frosting. Half a clump of what was once a sugar balloon, tumbles off the side. It plops on top of the ice cream resin. 

“Happy Birthday!” I mutter in a hoarse voice. It is hard to breathe with my chest collapsed in on itself. 

The fork moving to my lips drops maggots to my shirt. I don’t mind the bugs. They are welcome to join the others who have worked their way through my thigh meat. 

Frank smiles from across the table.

“You haven’t touched your cake.” Crumbs escape my lips with my words. 

He doesn’t answer. Only rolls his eyes. 

Or wait . . . 

Yes, his eyes are rolling, but it’s not voluntary. They pop out of their sockets onto his lap, as the foot of a rat scrambles back inside his open skull. 

“That is concerning,” I mumble. 

“Don’t worry yourself over the small things.” 

The master’s advice rings true. 

The cake tastes like forgotten days and too much salt.