Something's Wrong With Mallory

She was eating her own birthday cake when I killed her.

It's the first thing that enters my mind as I watch Dr. Rathburn slide a paper plate over to my side of the table. The slice of cake is identical to the one I've previously described—double chocolate, triple layered, and topped with rainbow sprinkles. It stares at me like it has eyes, like it's meant to bring out my deepest, ugliest secrets.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, I don't have any of those left to offer.

"Tell me, Mallory," Dr. Rathburn chimes in, and I look up. "How does this piece of cake make you feel?"

I think about his question, but I know the answer isn't what he wants to hear. "It brings me back to that day, sir." As Dr. Rathburn nods and scribbles something down on his notepad, I can't help but think he's doodling. "Would you like me to go over the story?"

"Sure, Mallory," Dr. Rathburn smiles, the corner of his eyes wrinkling. "If you'd like to."

No, I wouldn't particularly like to. I just have nothing else left to say, so the most I can do is squeeze out as much as I can out of this one little piece of memory.

Dr. Rathburn isn't terrible. Definitely not the best psychiatrist I've had, though not the worst either. At times, he cares, at others, he doesn't. Not that I blame him, he's got a wife and two kids to worry about, money to bring to the table, bills to pay. The least I can do is humor him while we're here, stuck in this blindingly white room with no windows for as long as he sees fit.

I glance down at the cake once more, and allow the memory to swallow me whole.

"I'm at a birthday party," I begin, finding a focal point in Rathburn's eyebrow mole. There's a hair stuck right in the middle of it, like a bull's eye begging to be hit. "Ashley Levington's 14th birthday party."

"Mhm." More scribbling.

Again, don't blame him. He's heard this story a dozen times by now—might even know the whole scenario as well as I do. Still, I carry on like I'm sharing it for the first time.

"I remember pretty much every detail," I murmur. "The dimmed lights, the birthday song, the wax melting off the dollar store candles."

"Who else was at this party?"

I stare a second longer than I usually do. I know Dr. Rathburn well enough by now to recognize his tell-tale cues—he's trying to trigger some nasty emotions, probably knows full well it won't wind up to much but figures he's got to try regardless.

"Ashley's close friends," I answer. "A few boys from our class. Ashley's immediate family."

Rathburn abandons his notepad to meet my eyes, probably feeling satisfied with the doodle, and pulls at the hair of his salt and pepper beard.

"And, keeping those in mind, what would you consider yourself?"

I almost laugh. Almost. "Someone she was forced to invite."

Rathburn nods, catching his pen between his teeth like he's mentally rummaging through old psych-101 textbooks. "Did you ever hold that against her? Did it make you feel... excluded? Perhaps some type of resentment?"

"No, sir." Unlike Dr. Rathburn, I don't have to rack my brain for what I'm gonna say. The words flow on their own, because I've never cared much for games. "If anything, I thought it was all rather pointless."

"What was?"

"The invitation." I blink down at my hands, shrugging off a smile I know no one would appreciate, and everyone would misinterpret. "Ashley shouldn't have had to invite someone she didn't want at her own birthday party."

Rathburn seems to study me, like he's frustrated with an egg that cracked open far too quickly and made a mess of his kitchen counter. Regardless of what he's actually thinking, he sighs.

"Okay. So, you're at the party, people are singing happy birthday to Ashley." He gestures for me to continue.

And I dive right back in.

"Ashley's got a big smile on her face, a blush on her cheeks. The table is covered in confetti." My eyes lower to the plastic spoon I've been provided with my dessert. "There are a few labeled butterfly-themed cups to my left, and a set of silverware cutlery to my right."

This time, Rathburn doesn't interrupt, doesn't segue into a different set of potentially irrelevant details.

"I stare at the birthday cake, and grab a fork for myself. I don't know why, but I get the sudden need to taste it before anyone else, and it's impossible to resist. I walk a few steps closer to Ashley, and my fingers tighten around the fork." I shake my head weakly. "In my mind, all I need is a bite of this cake, and I frankly don't care what anyone thinks of me for it."

I lick my lips as I imagine what the cake would feel like against my tongue, the satisfaction of a need well met. "The singing ends, Ashley blows out her fourteen candles, takes a first bite. Her mother makes a lighthearted comment about how she has to leave some for the rest of her party, and people laugh."

I don't realize I've paused until Dr. Rathburn speaks up.

"And what happens next?"

I respond in the same even tone I've been using since my very first word as a toddler—which was, ironically enough, yu-mmy.

"I raise my utensil, wanting to dig into the cake, too."

Dr. Rathburn doesn't waste a single beat. "What do you do instead?"

I pick up frosting with my fingertip. I'm staring at its swirling, peaking shape, at the single pink sprinkle caught like a fly in a spider's web, and temptation implores me to lick my finger clean.

"I stab Ashley in the neck."

At last, and just like I did back then, I allow myself to indulge.

The taste is almost the same, it fits like a key meant to unlock a flood of memories, ones which I let unfold before me as though it's happening for a second time.

The feeling of tearing through flesh. Ashley's gasp, then her immediate gurgle. Girls and boys alike screaming, backing away from the table in a surge of panic. Ashley's mother's cry of horror, like someone had just ripped out her guts and left her fighting for breath without any hope of survival. Someone passing out in the corner of my eye. The sight of blood flowing down in front of me like a fountain, pooling at my feet and permanently staining my white shoes. I almost want to throw a quarter in and make a wish—instead I let Ashley fall to the floor and grab a handful of cake for myself, finally getting what I craved.

Sweet collides with the taste of iron.

"What did you feel once you realized she was dead?"

Just like every time I am asked, I genuinely take a moment to think about it. I wish I had a better answer, but I don't.

"Nothing."

During our first session together, Rathburn regarded me with curiosity, fear, pity. Now, all I discern is irrevocable disappointment.

"Tell me, Mallory," Dr. Rathburn shuts his notebook close and tucks the pen behind his ear, silently trying to create a bubble of false intimacy. "Do you regret what you did?"

I know what I should say.

But there's no point in lying.

"I wish I did, sir."

Guilt. Self-loathing. Repentance. Everything I should be feeling right about now.

I think of Ashley's supposedly grief-struck family. I imagine their burning hatred, their wish for death to befall me as brutally as it did their beloved daughter, sister, friend. I can sense their need for justice portrayed in Rathburn's stare—from behind his thick prescription glasses, his magnified eyes search my own. He digs like a pirate who finally reached the destination of his treasure map, hoping to find even the faintest trace of humanity in this fucked up brain of mine.

I'm afraid he will find no fortune in this buried treasure chest.

Rathburn chews his upper lip, and I notice a hair from his mustache gets stuck in between his front teeth. He sighs, taps his knee and rises to his feet—concluding it's best to give up on this session, or itching to run to a mirror and take care of that hair. Perhaps both. Probably both.

"You can finish the slice of cake, if you'd like," he tells me, hand already on the doorknob. "The nurses will walk you back to your room when you're done."

As he's about to leave the room, my lower lip twitches. I feel the camera's focus on me, like an infrared laser burning a hole in my temple.

"Dr. Rathburn."

He pauses, peeks his head back in, one eyebrow arched in a way that suggests far too much hope for his youngest patient.

I'd feel bad for the guy, if I could.

"You should really get that mole checked out."

I scoop a generous spoonful of cake, then pop it into my mouth. It's a little dry, a little stale, but I still enjoy every second of it.