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The day after

A slice of pain and self-loathing worth laughing at.

By Mohamed AliPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 3 min read
1
The day after
Photo by American Heritage Chocolate on Unsplash

I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I was 5 years old. Though this shocks some people and leads many to ask a few questions ranging from ‘are you OK’, ‘were you neglected as a child or ‘that explains a lot’. But in my culture, celebrating birthdays is not really a thing, sure that seems to be changing with the new generation who were raised in the west but my family were determined to keep the tradition alive – well for me at least.

So what do I, my family or friends do for my birthday well my sisters give me a rock. Not just any rock no no no but the same rock every year. The impressive thing is that they can’t seem to keep track of their own precious belongings. They go through more phones, jewellery and unnecessary little nick-knacks than anyone but yet still are bale to year on year take great care of this rock they give me for my birthday. Any normal person should probably see it as something endearing, wholesome and a sign of affection that they take such good care of something that is meant as a present for me. Any normal person should be grateful and I would if it weren’t for the fact that they wrap the rock in a piece of paper with word useless written in bold red. Aren’t sisters the best.

My father of course needs to be reminded when my birthday actually is. He usually just gives me nod which is quite something since he barely acknowledges my existence most days. My friends, of course, each take turns punching my arm as many times as I have been alive. My colleagues at work just feel sorry for me but enough to actually give a present or acknowledge me in any celebratory fashion on any occasion. No matter how many times I’ve done it for them, helped them out of a certain problem, cheered them on through trials and tribulations for that I get – nothing. My family is my family and I expect – well malicious apathy but my friends and colleagues I would like to expect a bit more. Of course, I don’t care and the frustration is clearly not due to lack of love or respect from the closest people in my life. I guess this is why I expect marriage to be hell followed by a numbing divorce.

As for my mother on the hand, she taps me on the back, I say tap more like punches, and congratulates me on surviving another year and that she didn’t expect me to last this long. She gets a real kick out of saying it too. The disbelief on her face is very convincing. Once she did this in front of friends, the fact they all laughed wasn’t the weird part but that they all started to speculate about how I would meet my end. Run over by a van, attacked by a flock of geese, get crushed by falling piano apparently the latter would definitely be very fitting. Thankfully I didn’t ask why.

While my mother and friends bonded over the nature of my demise, I would be thinking about my chocolate cake waiting for me in the fridge. Like I said I don’t celebrate my birthday but I do celebrate the day after. You see when I was born, I had difficulty breathing and for over 17 hours a machine helped me breathe. The doctors said that there was little chance of my survival as I was unlikely to ever be able to breathe on my own. My mother on the hand didn’t buy it and when they told her that they would turn the machine off she believed that I would survive and breathe without It and sure enough I did.

Like I said I don’t celebrate my birthday but I celebrate the day after and that is why my mum says what she says as a reminder that no matter what anyone says I can overcome anything no matter how slim the odds. So, the day after my birthday me and my mum have a few slices of chocolate cake, just on our own. Little slices of hope mean a lot and I love my mum but I could really do without the punches thanks.

Short Story
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