I have always hated family gatherings. I hate my birthday the most. Year in, year out, it's always the same. Everyone goes through the motions. Everyone plays their role.
My mom stirs about the kitchen, cooks finger food and greets guests with a fake smile. My dad always drinks too much and staggers around, laughs out loud and slaps people on the back too hard.
My grandma smothers me with kisses and I tremble with disgust as I feel her hairy chin brush against my cheek. My uncle showers me with questions, asking if I have a boyfriend yet and if not, why not? My aunt tells me about her daughter, how good she is and how she is doing in school. She always takes pains to mention to me how smart she is and how smarter she is than me.
My little cousins run around the house like cockroaches, stomping on the floor, jumping up stairs, groaning and screaming at the top of their lungs. They climb on furniture and crawl under tables, looking at and dragging everything. Nothing remains untouched by their dirty little hands. They move around like rats on a wheel.
I honestly can't believe I can relate to these people, but I have to hold my tongue. I don't want them to be more angry with me than before.
Tables are lined with wet sandwiches and stale chips. After bottles of wine come bottles of whiskey and vodka. They all sit around the living room, sipping their drinks, swapping stories about the good old times and bragging about themselves. I cry as soon as I hear them laughing and laughing like a bunch of hyenas. That's enough to drive anyone crazy.
I get up and walk out of the room, desperate to clear my head. I know my uncle has a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his jacket pocket. Surely he won't miss one, I guess. I can hear all the adults in the living room singing the song, so I go into the kitchen and let out a loud smoke. Definitely won't go unnoticed.
There is a strange smell in the air that makes my nose wrinkle, but I don't pay much attention to it. My younger cousin is already in the kitchen, to mischief, as usual. They startle me when I come in, as if they've done something naughty and they're afraid I'll catch them.
I put the cigarette between my lips and my head towards the window. I hoist the cigarette lighter and suddenly flames burst across the room on the old gas stove. A deafening explosion occurs and flames rise in the room. The whole house is on fire.
I hear screams and cry. I smell burning flesh. I feel the scorching heat as we are all consumed in hell and I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief as it all dissolves into silence.
until next year.
When I am fourteen years old again.
Frequently.
Always fourteen.
