Original Title: Birthday Boy.
Rating: R for strong language, violence and child abuse (Non sexual).
Summary: Surrounding the time of Brian's tenth birthday, he learns a few of the lessons that will stay with him for the rest of his life.
Disclaimer: Don't sue me, these characters aren't mine and I never pretended they were.

Fifteen minutes after the school bell rings, Claire and I are racing our bikes toward home and she's getting mad at me because it's obvious I'm going to win. I pump my legs harder and try to pop a flying wheelie as I mount the curb in front of the house, but my bitch of a sister kicks the back tire, sending me hurtling toward the concrete.

I crash sideways and land with my face and elbow smashed roughly into the ground, burning my skin. God, it stings like hell and it takes all the will power I have not to cry. Great, my lip is split, too. "Stupid bitch!" I yell at her, but she can't hear me over the sound of her own laughter as she parks her bike in the garage beside Dad's truck.I untangle my legs from the frame of my bike as the man himself, yanks at my t-shirt and pulls me up.

"Watch your fucking language, Sonnyboy." He pats me on the back and swipes a finger across my lip, smearing blood across my chin. He smiles at me and picks up my bike. "Come on, get inside and help your Mom with the decorations."

Claire's birthday party. Right. I almost forgot.

I dread her party every year, it's always the same. She gets lots of cards and gifts from all her friends and they spend two hours running around the house together, screaming their heads off like Barbie dolls on a sugar high. I have to be nice to them even though I don't want to, and Mom tries to make me join in their dumb games. They tease me and make fun of me because I'm skinny and I smell like a boy. What else am I supposed to smell like? Girls are stupid and I will never understand them.

Dad dumps my bike on the grass and we head into the house, his hand on my shoulder the whole time. It feels a little weird because it's not something that we do, and I can't help wriggling under his touch. He pushes me toward the kitchen sink and I clean myself up while my Mom flutters around me, arranging sandwiches and miniature cakes on plates. Claire has already stomped up the stairs to try and squeeze herself into her party dress, yeah, good luck with that, bitch, so I join Dad on the couch and start blowing up balloons.

He's been in an unusually good mood for a few weeks and hasn't really smacked me around all that much during that time. I've had the odd slap across the back of my head when I call Claire names, but when Mom yells at him to "Quit it", he says they're 'love taps' and that they don't count.

I think he's in a good mood because he got a second job, although I'm not supposed to tell Mom. He's been visiting Mrs Wake a lot, she's this woman who lives across the street, and he always comes home with a smile on his face. Dad says her husband is in jail again and that she needs someone to trim her bushes. I don't think he does a good job, though, because they still look a mess to me. Whatever the reason, I like the 'nice' version of my Dad and I'm glad he's leaving me alone.

It doesn't take long to get everything ready for the party, and before I know it, the first of Claire's groupies are pounding on the door, impatient to be let in. Mom and Dad play nice while more and more parents drop off their little princesses, and in less than an hour, I get locked in my room because 'Whiny' Whitney didn't like it when I shoved a pickled egg down her dress.

It's my tenth birthday tomorrow so I'll get to be the one to boss Claire around and there's nothing she can do about it. It sucks that I have to use the same balloons and left over party food, but Mom and Dad never have enough money to pay for two parties in a row, that's just the way it is. Although Dad has promised me a piñata this year, so that's cool.

I sit on my bed for a while, throwing my soccer ball against the door, and listen to the screeching as I make fun of all the girls in my head. God, I can't wait until tomorrow.

* * *
The next morning I get up late because I stayed awake a long time last night, thinking about my birthday. I'm ten. TEN! One-Oh! Woo Hoo! Finally I'm in double digits. I do a little happy dance in my room and then hurry down to breakfast.

I feel like I'm about to explode out of myself, I'm so excited, but nobody else seems to have woken up properly yet. They're all walking around like zombies, and nobody bothers to wish me a happy birthday.

I look around and I can't see any cards or gifts, but that's okay. Mom always says you shouldn't be greedy and ask for stuff, it's better to wait for it to come to you. I guess I can wait until after school, it's no big deal. I wonder if they are going to surprise me when I get home tonight? If there will be balloons and games and tons of cool stuff set up in the back yard, like Dad promised? You only get to be ten once, right? I won't even mind if they make me wear one of those stupid little pointy hats, it's going to be awesome.

I start fantasizing about which of my friends will show up and how everyone at school is going to talk about my party forever, when Dad smacks the table, making me jump. "What the fuck are you smiling at?"

Shit, I didn't realise I was. I pull the cereal box toward me and mumble; "Nothing Pop."

Claire looks over at me from across the table, but after a moment of her own lips wrestling with each other, she looks back down to the breakfast wilting in her bowl. She looks like she might cry, but then she takes a deep breath and twirls her spoon around, loading it up with milk over and over again. I can't work out why she keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I'm not looking, but it's my birthday now, not hers, so I don't give a crap.

* * *

I get sent to the nurses office after my friend, Jimmy Donovan, accidentally busts open my lip again when we're playing Star Wars during recess. While Miss Hughes is fixing me up I tell her all about Claire's party and what a great time I'm going to have at my own. She smiles at me and spreads some antiseptic cream across my mouth that tastes disgusting.

She usually likes to ask me lots off questions about my Dad so I tell her how he said he's going to smack my piñata so hard with a bat that it will split wide open on the first try. She gets this really sad look on her face and strokes my cheek. "Well, honey, I hope his aim has improved." She laughs but it doesn't sound like she's happy about anything.

She walks me back out of her office, wishing me a 'happy birthday' and pets my hair, making me blush. Jimmy's waiting for me, and as we walk back to class, he starts poking me in the ribs and whispering that I'm in love with Miss Hughes. Yeah, Jimmy can be an idiot, too, sometimes.

* * *

At the end of the day Claire and I race home as usual, but this time I win by a mile and don't give her the chance to dump my ass on the ground. We run up to the door but as I'm about to pull it open, she pulls me back. "Brian, wait!"

I stop dead on the porch, seeing the worried look on her face. That's when I hear Mom and Dad yelling at each other. I guess she found out about Dad working for Mrs Wake. Crap! I hope I don't get the blame.

We sneak inside and see that Mom is heading in the direction of the liquor cabinet. I don't need to be a genius to know that now is not a good time to ask about my party.

Claire grabs my sleeve and drags me toward the stairs, and as we pass by the living room, I can see how angry Dad is, too. For some reason he's swinging around a hammer loosely in his hand, and it makes my gut squirm. I'm scared.

Claire holds my hand tight as we slowly climb the stairs together and tells me to go straight to my room to do my homework. Although she can be a real bitch to me sometimes, she's looking out for me right now and I'm not about to argue with her.

My foot lands softly on the top step as I look back and catch a glimpse of my Dad through the living room door. He takes off his wedding ring and starts hammering it harder and harder until it's crushed flat against the floor.

* * *

The house has grown dark and the noise faded away to nothing when I wake up from a deep sleep I don't remember falling into. It's eleven thirty and I realize that Mom and Dad never called me back downstairs for my party, or even for supper. It's not the first time this has happened and I know I shouldn't be surprised by it, but I am, and my insides hurt. I'm hungry, too, which just makes it feel ten times worse.

I creep downstairs in the hopes of filling my growling stomach with left over party food that I know is still in the fridge. My Dad is passed out on the couch, but I can see pretty well in the dark and I know I can make it to the kitchen without disturbing him.

I make a detour via the armchair on my way there to look for the dent that he made in the floor when he smashed up his ring. I don't know why, but I feel like I need to know where it is. I find it quickly enough and slide my big toe through the groove in the wood a few times and fight the urge to cry.

I eventually make it to the fridge and open it as quietly as he can, angling my body to shield the light and trying not to rattle the beer bottles inside the door. I cut a tiny slither of Claire's pink birthday cake and let it fall into my open palm. If I'm too greedy my Mom will know what I've done and I'll be grounded for a week. I have to make sure to take a slice from the end of the cake without any decoration on it because another thing I know for a fact is that she will have counted how many drops of frosting were left before she went to bed.

Just as I'm taking my first bite into the cake, my Dad stumbles into the kitchen, no doubt to get himself another beer, and I desperately try to swallow what's in my mouth before he catches me. He comes to a swaying stop behind me and yanks the fridge door even wider. I turn around to look at him with full cheeks and see his face turn purple in less than two seconds. Crap, I'm in trouble.

I know it's coming but it doesn't make it hurt any less when he lashes out with a speed faster than his drunken state should allow, and smacks me across the face with the back of his hand. Crumbs tumble out of my mouth and my face feels wet, thanks to dear old Dad reopening the split in my lip.

There's blood and cake clinging to my rumpled t-shirt, but I know he hasn't quite finished yet so I try my best not to move a muscle or even blink. If I stand perfectly still he won't have an excuse to stay mad at me and maybe he'll let me go. I stand exactly where I am, concentrating on breathing in and out with my eyes wide and telling myself not to lick the blood from my mouth.

A moment passes that feels like forever when you're ten years old, and something changes in my Dad's face. He sighs with his whole body and leans in close to me, blasting his hot, alcohol soaked, breath straight up my nose. It makes me gag and I try not to cough.

"You're a thieving little fucker, you know that?" I blink at the viciousness of his voice but don't say a word. Any sign of weakness in front of him is a bad idea and will only make him smack me again. "Get your ass back into bed, before I go get the hammer!"

I start to walk away and try not to flinch when he raises his fist at me to let me know he's serious about the hammer. I have to try really hard not to run as fast as I can back up the stairs to my room.

* * *

My face feels hot and numb at the same time and I'm still hungry as I crawl back into bed, finally wiping my mouth on my shirt. Fuck. I sniff back my tears and curl up into a ball, wondering why my Dad hates me so much.
The next day, in class, Jimmy tries to talk to me about our English project but I'm not listening to him. I stare out of the window, looking across the playground and trying not to pick at the scab that has formed on my lip.

I can't stop thinking about last night and why my family forgot my fucking birthday, again. I was an idiot for stealing food in the middle of the night, too, I should have known better. Why did this have to happen now? Things have been great for weeks, why did I have to ruin everything?

All I wanted was to make it through one birthday without getting smacked and have my Dad smile at me like he actually gives a shit. I guess that was too much to ask and I only have myself to blame.

The teacher walks up to my desk and picks up my blank sheet of paper. "Brian, honey, why don't you write about your party?" She asks me in her quiet voice. "I bet you got lots of cool stuff, huh?"

I feel the stab in my gut again but I'm determined not to cry like a fucking sissy. It's time I grew up and maybe if I start acting like a man, my Dad will love me enough to stop smacking me around. I turn my attention back to the window, my throat tightening until it's painful.

"I don't do birthdays."