The shack sits in solace. Everyone who attended is long gone, free to explore the rebounds of the outside world. It is unfortunate that the same cannot be said for the host. The poppers hanging on the ceiling have all been emptied out of their confetti and broken bottles are strewn across the dirty floor. Up a few steps in the back of the house leads to two feet sitting in worn out, brown sneakers.
There isn't much that he can remember himself from back in his college days… back when he was younger and more idealistic… However, what he can recall from those fickle days of blind innocence can only be described as surreal and fantastically romantic... almost like a dream. But every dream comes to an end and eventually fades into a distant memory if it is not forgotten completely. All those evenings of holding hands and frolicking through the dying sunlight and watching the stars through a thirty meter telescope. All those nights spent alone together in the lab creating said telescope. Those experiences are now worlds away as flashes of the triangle keychain worm their way into his brain. In reality, it hangs limply from his half-open palm.
The party was for lack of a better term fun while it lasted. There was an enormous cake, though he has absolutely no idea who it is for (it still stands, not a bite taken from it) and really no idea what the party was even for. But he does know that everyone at it enjoyed themselves and each other, popping bottles of champagne and dancing to nonstop music all night. It was the splitting image of the perfect party… well, almost. Through his fevered memory of what happened all those nights ago, he can only think of one thing that was missing… him. And so he sat there for days on end on that same spot on the ruptured staircase with his face in his hands, pondering all the while what it would be like if he were there with him.
That man that he spent all of his college life with, the perfect lab partner. The only one tolerant enough to put up with his own extreme thirst for knowledge as his thirst to figure out the unknown was just as strong – was. But all that happiness- all of the time they spent all came to a bitter end after the argument that led to the fall. No one attended his parties after that, and so even though he sits in a room saran-wrapped with shiny, new streamers and a fresh custom cake, it all feels like the nicely decorated house is in ruins. It isn't worth pouring his heart into every single invitation he sent out if he could no longer reach him. He would do anything to have those days back around again. Absolutely anything, even if it meant give up his soul to a demon to get him back to normal again.
Among all this loneliness, he can only see it as an irrationally cruel joke. His friends all unfriended him on Facebook long ago so it's unlikely any of them even received the mass invite to the townsfolk he sent out - not that they would have come if they had. So it doesn't matter.
He finally is able to muster up the strength to leave the stairs behind and move on to his magnificent cake, now only just for him. It sits atop the big, round dining table as if it were to be gawked at like a museum exhibit, pink icing lining the edges of white layers like ribbons. When he finally reaches it, he immediately dive bombs into its enormous, looming mass with the likening that stale icing on his face is the last thing he will ever experience. The frosting and batter smear against his body, soiling his already lackluster blazer and mixing in his ratty hair. He feels the behemoth mass engulf him and he licks the crumbs from his face and grabs more clumps with his hands. At least he gets the cake to himself. That's a plus. It will take him forever to finish it.
Suddenly, he stops. Suddenly it all means nothing. It's all rendered pointless, reveling in the endless amount of oversized pastry, if he's not there to share the moment. In a flash, the chemicals in his brain reverse themselves. The breathless feeling of liberation immediately leaves his veins only to be replaced by untold rage. Rolling off the table, he asserts himself into a standing position and kicks up his knee at the edge to flip it over. What remains of the towering frosting pile comes tragically tumbling down.
Tens of unlit candles topple over from the highest point and splatter all over the clean tiles and carpeting. The pack of matches is dispatched from a nearby utility drawer and a match is taken out. A swift hand swipes it across the pack and in a split second, it takes flame. He uses it to light one of the birthday candles that is stuck to the tablecloth. In only a matter of minutes the entire table along with everything on it is set ablaze. He watches in vengeful spite as the fire light a red glow along the walls and on his face. The flames lick at the ceiling, carpet and staircase until the cake is no more. There is only the empty table and bright pink tablecloth.
Three bottles of champagne sit still stuck together and unopened over on the counter in the kitchen nearby. He grabs two of them and puts each thumb at the rim of each bottle, then climbs on top of the table. He then simultaneously pops the corks off of both bottles and liquid shoots out everywhere, splashing on the walls and making the lights flicker over an otherwise well-lit hallway. Once the bottles are emptied out, he moves onto the last one.