Memories of Chocolate Cake

I have a confession to make: I hate chocolate cake.

Gasp, why, that's preposterous! Someone out there, maybe even you, declares in outrage, because who doesn't like chocolate cake?

Me, apparently. I like chocolate, and I like cake, but I don't like chocolate cake. Why is that? I ask myself the same question over and over, whenever a friend or a relative proposes getting a chocolate cake for someone's birthday and everyone except me agrees, and then they ask me what's wrong with me when I sulk in the corner for the rest of the day like a petulant child who didn't get her way.

I'll admit that the aroma of chocolate cake is tantalizing, sweet and sticky and rich with cocoa. Chocolate lava cake is mesmerizing to watch, too, the way the hot fudge oozes up and out of the cake the moment a fork pierces through that tender shield. And I'll be transfixed by the sight until my mischievous older brother tries to shove a forkful into my mouth, where the sweetness of the fudge turns sickening, the soft cake transforms into a goopy mess that sticks my teeth together like chewing gum, and I have to spit it out on my plate despite our parents' horrified expressions over our atrocious table manners.

"Beatrix!" Mother scolds, tossing me a fresh napkin so I can wipe my mouth. "Control yourself!"

"Sorry, Mom," I mutter, sending my grinning brother a rude gesture underneath the table.

"Beatrix!"

Oops. I shrug, unrepentant. My brother devours the lava cake, and we leave the restaurant not long afterwards.

So yes, I despise chocolate cake. I will gladly pass up all the chocolate cakes at the store for a slice of cold strawberry cheesecake. The creaminess of the sweet cream cheese, the moist, buttery graham cracker crust, paired together with fresh strawberry purée—now that's good eating, in my opinion.

But two years later, my chocolate-cake-hating existence comes to a screeching halt. I stare at the two solemn police officers standing on our doorstep at two in the morning on a Saturday, and then I glance back at my parents' pale, shell-shocked faces.

"Dead...?" Mother whispers, shaking. "N-no, that's—that can't be true, we just talked to him four hours ago! How can he be dead?"

"We're very sorry for your loss," one of the officers offers.

"You're lying!" Father gets angry and starts shouting at them. I just stand there in disbelief, in my ratty pink pajama pants and an oversized BTS shirt that I stole from my brother a week ago.

My brother, who is now dead.

Killed on his way home. By a drunk university student driving the wrong way on the freeway.

I turn around and walk to the bathroom woodenly. I close the door, but don't lock it. I stand with my back bowed against the door for several moments, staring uncomprehendingly down at my slippered feet. Samuel's dead. My older brother is dead. I—

I don't even notice that I had slid down to the cold tile floor until I feel the chill emanating from the tiles. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my thin arms around them, shivering. All I could think of was my brother's smile that morning when he had left for school, promising that he'll bring a cheesecake home for me, because tomorrow—today—is my birthday. Even though cheesecake is not his favorite, not like chocolate cake, but it's mine.

A wretched sob leaves my throat, ugly and echoing through the tiny bathroom. I bury my face in my arms and start crying, biting down on my lip to be quiet. I don't anyone to hear me.

After what seems like hours, there is a soft knock on the bathroom door. "Bea? Your father and I have to go down to the hospital. To... to claim the body." Mother's voice sounds choked up when it floats through the door. "Do you want to come with us, dear? It's fine if you'd rather stay home."

My legs are numb. All of my muscles don't move when I tell them to. "I'll stay," I say quietly, my fingers grasping the sleeves of the BTS shirt. It doesn't smell like my brother anymore after I've been wearing it to sleep for a week. Somehow, this is more upsetting than I expected.

I hear my parents' footsteps leave, the rumble of the garage door as it groans open, and the faint sound of the car engine roaring to life. And then they leave, and it's quiet again.

Eventually I shakily get to my feet. I splash water on my face to wash away the tear tracks, but my eyes are still red-rimmed in the mirror, my cheeks an unpleasant, blotchy red. I end up bursting into tears again when I look at the BTS shirt in the mirror, because it has Nam-joon's face on it and Nam-joon (RM) had always been his favorite of the band members.

I wander into the kitchen for a glass of water. The emptiness in me threatens to overwhelm me with grief when I see a tupperware container of leftover chocolate cake in the fridge next to the filtered water container. Samuel's! Don't eat!! the tag slapped haphazardly on top proclaims.

I almost drop the glass on the floor when my hand starts shaking at the sight of that chocolate cake. My brother is dead. He'll never get to eat his chocolate cake again.

He won't buy me cheesecake again, won't help me with my homework again, won't try to shove his sugar-laden cake down my throat again.

Won't wander into my room while I'm sick and miserable and softly tell me about his dream to become a famous patissier ever again.

I slam the fridge door shut, breathing unsteadily. Then I open it again, to take out the tupperware container with the cake inside.

I sit at the dining table and open the container. I stare at this innocent little slice of chocolate cake, and it stares back at me. It's lumpy and dense, the frosting is unevenly coating the top, and there's a questionable amount of rainbow sprinkles stuck to the side. Samuel probably baked it himself.

We were opposites, my brother and I. Different personalities, different temperaments, and different tastes in pretty much everything. I hated chocolate cake, but my brother loved it so much that he ate it at least three times a week. I regret that I could not have shared a cake with him at least once while he was still around to enjoy it

The cake in the container looks so unappetizing, but I fetch a fork from the kitchen drawer anyways. I dig a small piece out, trying to get a little bit of everything on my fork. After dithering for a few seconds, I hesitantly put it in my mouth, bracing myself for the taste.

I have to put my fork down so I can grab a tissue as tears start leaking everywhere again. I don't want to cry on something that Samuel put his heart and soul into making, because chewing on that tiny bite of semi-sweet chocolate and cold sprinkles is an enlightening experience. I can almost feel my brother guiding my hand to the container for a second bite of cake, his laughter a melody in my ear as he says, "See? Chocolate cake is delicious, isn't it?"

I nod, even though I know nobody is actually there and I'm sitting alone in the kitchen with a lopsided slice of cake that my brother had baked before he died.

"Happy birthday," I whisper to myself, trembling, as I lift the second forkful of cake to my mouth.

It's the best thing I've ever eaten.