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by Seraphina In all my twenty four years as a teenager, nothing like the night of my younger sister's sixteenth birthday party has ever occurred. She was born two years before me and is now fourteen so the year would have been '81, possibly '82, old age prevents me from remembering exactly. Like I said, it was the day of my brother's eighteenth birthday, a momentous occasion in the family history books. Surrounded by smelly old relatives who had possibly celebrated a bicentennial coming of age, several centuries beforehand. They couldn't seem to take a hold and grasp the concept that family gatherings weren't welcome amongst the younger generations and kept repeating the same things over and over. "Isn't this nice, the family altogether like this. It really is very nice, don't you think it's nice?" "No, it sucks." "Yes but isn't it nice?" OAP's!!! I wish my mother would just rack off. And it isn't just the oldies I have a problem with. It's the Uncle's with too much makeup and the floral dresses, and the cousins that keep coming back no matter how many spoonfuls of arsenic you put in their brussel sprout ice-cream. One cousin in particular, Claudel his name was (but obviously, we called him Fergus), just didn't seem to get the message. The boy was somewhat primate looking, right down to the furry little ears and the absence of clothing. My uncle found him in the vast jungles of the North Pole and adopted him into the family. Needless to say, he was spoilt rotten and though he was King Dick of Dog Shit mountain. I wasn't the only one to dislike him. There were others in our faction, our leader being Great Nanna Hodown, a brute of a woman who insisted on carrying around a walking stick with her everywhere she went, despite being legless and armless for that matter and bound to a wheelchair that was pushed around, quite incidentally, by her headless Pomeranian, Roger. She reassured us that the stick would come in handy one day and so, she was forced to carry it around between her teeth because no one else would go near her. For this reason, she never talked, which leads me to wonder how everyone knew that she didn't like Fergus, the little shit, or how she came to be our leader�our silent leader. Despite all this, Hodown was right. On this particular day, the stick did come in handy when Fergus, the little charmer, tried to get it on with Roger who was minding his own business, pushing Great Nan over to the table to view the cake which was quite phallic like, as family tradition called it to be. Somehow, Hodown managed to run Fergus through with the walking stick. He stumbled towards the table, regurgitated up a mixture of blood, sputum, phlegm and vomit, all over the very expensive cake before finally drowning in the mess as his face came to rest in it. My sister, who wasn't going to miss out on her birthday cake for anything, was the only one who ate any of it. She died later that night after having an allergic reaction from eating the cream in the middle. To this day she blames us for not telling her it was in there because had she known, she surely would not have eaten it. God bless her and keep her in her pickled state. |
