The Short Story That Never Won A Prize.

Happy Last Birthday

“Stella?”

A seventeen-year-old Tom pushed the door open a fraction. Inside, the fireplace lay dead but the room was filled with certain warmth. The sickly sweet aroma of vanilla clutched at his throat. Velvet curtains drank in the sunlight. Thick candles burned on the ledge above the fireplace. It flickered as it sensed another being.

On the table was a birthday cake. Halved strawberries nested luxuriously in fluffy piles of whipped cream, resting on the flawless chocolate surface. In white icing, it read ‘Happy Last Birthday.’ A knife lay on its side; glistening dark liquid sheathed the mirror-like blade.

On the bed, a shadowy figure lay on her back, as still as a corpse on the examining table. The only movement was the subtle rise and fall of her diaphragm. An arm draped over the edge, fingertips scrapping the newspaper underneath. A pool of spilt white capsules and an empty blue bottle lay on the bed beside her pale fingers.

“Stella?” whispered Tom, his voice gentle. He took a step closer.

Her long tangled blonde hair created a messy halo around her. Staring blankly, her large childlike eyes were wide open. The chocolate-brown pools held a distinct emptiness; whatever it held was extracted, leaving behind a lifeless shell. It chilled him to the bone. When he called her name again, she looked at him, moving neither her head nor body. Mona Lisa had returned.

Tom fell down beside her. She blinked as if that was the only form of communication she could manage. She looked down. Tracing the phantom path her eyes created, he came upon the dark crimson stains on the sheets of yesterday’s newspaper. It covered part of a dark-haired woman’s smiling face. For a moment, he just stared, his brain unable to function.

Then it hit him like a bag of weights, knocking the breath out of him.

Gingerly, he picked up her wrist, as if it will break and shatter into a million pieces. Smooth stone-cold skin seemed to burn through the skin on his fingers. He fragilely flipped it over and gasped.
A red diagonal line carved into the inside of her wrist; a distinct contrast with her milky translucent skin. Red snakes slithered down her wrist. Tom’s face turned a ghastly shade of white as the image in front of him branded itself into his mind.

Wordless, he searched her eyes with his. Her eyes suddenly flickered as if life was switched on. Emotion flooded her eyes for a moment, but she hastily switched off again. It was as if she was afraid that she showed too much. He swore violently and dug around for his mobile. Locating it in his jeans pocket, he clumsily flicked it open and dialed. His hand shook as he held the phone to his ear.
Stella lay there, inert. Her eyes gradually drooped closed. The dark-blue veins on her eyelids seem to scream out in the candlelight. A fragile, unearthly prettiness surrounded her.

“Emergency? Ambulance please.”

A short pause.

“Can you come down to 34 Austin Street Bulleen? Something terrible has happened to my—” He gazed at her left hand. The large topaz winked at him. Swallowing hard, he continued.

“—my fiancé.”

His hands begun to get clammy. They trembled slightly as he splayed out his fingers on the cool surface of the bamboo floorboards.

“She’s lying on her back. There’s a cut on the inside of her left arm.”
Hot tears burned his eyes, blurring his vision. He hurriedly wiped them away.

“As fast you can...” A whispered plead.

He snapped his phone shut. The loud snap echoed. Taking a shuddering breath, he dragged his eyes to Stella. He did not want to look but it was like a car crash on the road, you just cannot tear your eyes away. Kneeling beside her, he took her right hand in both his hands, placing a kiss on top. Salty tears streamed out from under his eyelids, fusing their skin together. Time seem to stop. It was almost as if God pressed the ‘mute’ button on life. Minutes trickled away, like rainwater down a drain.

Outside, the ambulance screeched to a stop. Neighbors peeped out their windows to observe the commotion. Afraid to be seen, they hurriedly backed away.

The door shook in its hinges under the pounding of fists. Unhurriedly, Tom released Stella’s hand and went to open the door, his eyes never leaving her. They rushed in like a gust of wind.

“Where’s your fiancé?” one of the men demanded.

The question sliced through Tom’s trance like a sharp blade, wincing slightly at the sudden noise.

“On the bed,” he answered flatly, exhaustion finally taking over.

“How long has she---” The questions kept coming.

“I don’t know.”

Routinely, they got to work. A stretcher was brought in and they packed Stella into the ambulance.

“Unconscious. Loss of blood. Possible transfusion. Test for drugs.”

A middle-aged man with warm blue eyes looked at Tom, slightly concerned.

“Son, you comin’ with us?”

“Yeah.” He stared hard at the crinkled surface of the blue bed sheet as if he stared long and hard enough could bring her back, alive and healthy. The man peered at the boy’s forlorn expression.

“You gonna be okay?” His voice softer.

“Yeah,” Tom automatically answered.

“Let’s go.”

Satisfied with the answer, he strode out. His heavy footsteps made the overloaded bookcase tremble violently as if it will topple over. Lingering a moment longer, Tom followed.

He closed the pale blue door with its peeling paint, feeling like he was closing the door to Stella’s life. Dread fell on his shoulders. Would she ever open this door again with her bare hands?

The image of her on the bed, arm dangling over the side, flashed before his eyes. A thin blanket of cold sweat covered his back like a second skin. He tried to shake off the image, but it clung on with its filthy hands and claws, dragging him down into despair’s gloomy depths.

As the sun settled behind the city’s skyscrapers in the distance, the ambulance raced off down the gravelly road. It attempted to save one life, but oblivious to the fact that, in the end, it will also take another; killing two birds with one stone.