A little depressing thing I thought of randomly. I literally just typed this and uploaded it, so yah, completely random.
Enjoy!
He sat at the dining table, back straight. A brightly coloured hat sat firmly on his head, secured by an itchy sting of elastic. Perhaps the novelty of such accessorises should've worn off by now, but he couldn't care less. Each tick of the clock increased his anxiety, the gnawing feeling of insignificance that swirled in his stomach. It made him sick.
The wooden table he sat at was scattered with different sized boxes and bags, all of which labelled with his name and a short message of well wishing. All for him, though all the presents in the world didn't seem to compensate. When he walked into school that day he was attacked with an overdone chorus of the song. A song which has seemed to fused itself into this particular day that it was almost considered a ritual. The notes, C, C, D, C, F, E, rang in his ears, notes sung all over and over again once every 365 days.
He walked home, elated that people actually cared that much about him; the scrawny computer nerd who is happy to let you steal his answers. It's not every day one flows into the age that many people deem "sweet", or at least less sour than every other digit. He opened the front door, half expecting to see them standing there, broad smiles stretching their aged faces. He quarter expected the familiar song to have one more encore from their enthusiastic off key voices. He at least expected one of them to assist him in carrying the many presents that weighed his arms down. However, this wasn't the case.
An empty home greeted him, no one to hear the recollection of his day, or how he was planning to spend all the money he had received from his peers. Simply a deserted house saw his return, which he deemed wildly inappropriate for a family of three, and a note lying on the granite bench.
Dad and I will be working late tonight. There's dinner in the fridge, and don't go to bed too late.
Mum.
PS-
The smallest flicker of hope ignited in his chest. Perhaps the side note would lift his spirits. All he wanted was two words, a small message, an acknowledgement, or anything that was remotely related to the event that set him apart from everyone else for a glorious 24 hours. His spirits dropped once more.
Don't wait up.
The pathetic thought that they were working hard to maintain their seemingly perfect lifestyles was all that he could think of to barely sustain him. They're slaving over troubled souls and unhinging the reasons behind someone mentally unstable to ensure his future was a prosperous one. The reason wasn't sufficient, he knew that. Admitting it was the problem.
The clock read 11:00. Just one more hour of his day left. Maybe, just maybe, this was just like one of those sickly clichéd cartoons, where everyone would act as though everything was normal until the person in question would lose faith in all their friends, only to be pleasantly surprised by an impromptu party. It was April fool's after all. He clung to that thought as though it was life itself; all other beams of hope seemed to have whittled down to this weak premonition.
After half an hour, the sound of the garage opening snapped him out of his state of half slumber. He bolted up, his previous sleepiness disregarded. Perhaps now they would remember. Maybe the sight of their son will trigger their memory of the fact that today was the 16 year anniversary of his entering the world.
They entered the house, both of them deeply engrossed in conversation:
"... Such a tough nut to crack."
"mmm, we'll probably have to stay back late tomorrow as well-"
Their conversation froze in their throats. They stared at him, jaws in close proximity to the floor, the looks on their faces clearly telling him that the significance of the day had slipped their minds. His mother spoke first, her eyes desperate.
"Cody-"
Her explanation, or justification, or apology, or whatever it is she wanted to say was interrupted abruptly. The bitter sound of his chair scraping against the tiled floor echoed through the room. He tore the hat from him head violently and threw it onto the floor. With a distressed grunt, his foot slammed onto the cardboard head piece. The hat mangled under his stamp, every collision causing his mother to flinch.
"Cody!" his father yelled; his voice was distraught.
Without waiting for anymore sympathy, he shot them one last pained expression, the severity of which caused both of them to wince, and stormed off. He stomped up the stairs, hoping that each step would send his parents further into guilt. He wanted them to drown in it, to feel as terrible as he did now.
The happiness of the day disintegrated, the memory of which just multiplied his grief. Today would never be forgotten: the day that Cody Emmet Jameson Anderson's parents forgot his birthday.
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