longer pieces by elliot

TW: Blood, gore, knives

“Close your eyes!” my mom says, her light tone carrying down the hallway like birdsong on a spring morning.

“Got it!” I squeal, impatient. Still, I leaned back in my chair, squinting toward the warm flickering light dancing closer. I was caught between temptation and obedience before slapping my palms over my eyes. My elbows hit the wooden table with a dull thwack. From behind my fingers, her voice rises—angelic, delicate—“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

I slowly open my eyes and lower my hands to the table. The room glows with candlelight, casting long shadows that twist across the walls. The cake stands perfect, the frosting soft and ridged with her careful strokes. My breath catches in my throat. She finishes the song, and I blow. The candles flicker out one by one, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals, like wisps of ghosts floating toward the ceiling. 

I snap out of my trance as a slow breeze slips through the open window, fluttering the curtains. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a gleam of silver. My mother’s hand moves slow and deliberate, pressing the cake knife into the sponge. The blade slides down as if it was cutting through flesh. For a moment, it felt normal. Familiar. But when I look up, her smile stops me cold.

It’s too wide. 

Too forced.

Her eyes don’t smile with her mouth. Her pupils, tiny black pinpricks, flit from side to side like she was trying to hold something in—or let something out.

I blink.

The next moment is a blur. A scream. A flash. Pain. My body hits the floor before I even know I’ve moved. Now I lie on the ground, the cold tiles biting into my back. The window is shattered, jagged shards catching the candlelight. The beautiful, flowing gray curtains are soaked in crimson. They cling heavy to the sill, wet and red. The air smells off — like copper and sugar — clashing in a way that makes my stomach twist. My breath comes in short, wet gasps, and each inhale sets my ribs on fire. I can’t tell if it’s from crying or bleeding. Maybe both.

She stands across from me. Her hand trembles slightly, the knife still in it. The same knife she used to cut my cake. The same knife she uses to cut me. Frosting clings to the blade — vanilla, pink — now streaked with red. It drips onto the floor in sticky blobs. She starts singing again.

“Happy birthday to you…” Her voice cracks. It doesn’t sound like her anymore. It’s hollow. Almost robotic, but each word trembles like she’s afraid of what will happen if she doesn’t sing. 

She moves toward me. The knife in her hand dips with each step, swaying like a metronome, keeping time with the slow dirge she whispers. I try to scramble back, but my limbs feel wrong. Too slow. Too heavy. Blood sticks my shirt to my skin. The warmth is fading, replaced by a cold that starts in my fingertips and creeps inward. She kneels over me. Her breath smells like birthday cake and tangy metal.

She draws her blade down my arm, almost lovingly. It burns, and I clench my teeth, eyes filling with tears I refuse to let fall. She watches the blood bead up with fascination, like it’s the best part of the celebration. Her eyes meet mine — glassy and far too calm. She smiles. The same smile from every birthday. Soft. Nostalgic. But now I see the truth behind it. It is always sad. Because maybe she knows this day will come.

“Close your eyes,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft again, nostalgic. Her thumb brushes my eyes — and I succumb to darkness.