This is my first attempt at posting something original I’d written so my expectations aren’t too high (plus it’s un-beta’d so be wary of careless errors). It’s a bit short, but that’s because this was originally a piece I wrote for English class (the assignment itself was to write a ‘Short, short story’). And please ignore the lack of creativity on my part for the title. So please read, review and tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is welcomed.

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Birthday

“Happy birthday to me, happy…” The young man murmured drunkenly to himself as he twirled his old Swiss Army knife between his fingers the best he could considering his inebriated state. After a few minutes he stopped and sighed heavily. Yet another year had come and gone and he had nothing real to show for it save the marks on his forearm.

Years of pure anguish were evident with every self-inflicted scar. Each one signified every year of his existence or suffering, which he preferred to call it since being wrapped up in a blanket and abandoned by his widowed mother when he was only a few months old. This (sadistic) ritual began when he was fourteen, which meant by now there were numerous scars. Eighteen to be exact. But this was only because he had chosen to make up for the ones that came before his fourteenth birthday.

He studied them intently with his stormy gray eyes and traced each and every one of them with the calloused pads of his fingertips—another ritual of his. Even in his intoxication, he could specifically recall every time he created one of those imperfect lines across his lightly tanned right forearm.

BRIIIINNNGG.

The shrill ring of the old-fashioned rotary phone on his mahogany desk brought him out of his morbid reverie with its piercing sound. He fumbled a bit with the receiver before answering.

“H’lo?” he mumbled groggily.

“Yeah, hi. Uh, can I please speak to Sean Matthews?” The nervous voice was distinctly female.

“This is he. Can I help you?”

“Well, I don’t know about help Sean, but I wanted to talk to you.”

He sobered up instantly.

“Sorry, but who is this?” His instincts told him the voice was familiar, only he couldn’t quite place it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

A long pause followed.

“This is your mother, Sean. I’ve been looking for—” He abruptly cut her off.

“I have no mother.”

“Please hear me out. I—”

“I have no mother.” The words were a harsh mantra that had been fixed into his brain since as far back as he chose to remember.

“I’vebeentryingtofindyou.” The words came out like bullets for fear they wouldn’t be spoken yet again.

“Since when?” He wondered why he even cared.

“For about eight months now.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re about eighteen years too late.”

“Which is why I’m calling…I’m trying to make up for my mistakes. If you’d only give me a chance then maybe I—“

“I’ve gotten this far without you,” he looked around at his lavish surroundings—expensive Italian furniture, antique Oriental rug, brand new Plasma TV…

“Yes,” she interrupted “I do realize you’re quite well-off. And only nineteen I mean, when I saw that article in TIME magazine—” she rambled on.

Her motives became as transparent as the half-empty bottle of Absolut sitting on his desk, well maybe not so much the bottle as the liquid inside it. He fought the urge to roll his faintly bloodshot eyes. Everybody was the same. Money was the only thing that mattered to them. It always was and always would be. That’s why he hated people. Well, at least one of the reasons why.

“—And of course I understand why you wouldn’t want this to get around. It must get annoying with people constantly asking for favors—”

Click.

“Well, then I'm sure you understood that,” he muttered to himself. Selfish bitch. Did she honestly think he’d welcome her with open arms after being left on a random doorstep essentially to die?

BRIIIINNNGG.

BRIIIINNNGG.

BRIIIINNNGG.

He ran his hand through his unruly black hair and closed his eyes in irritation. For God’s sake, take a fucking hint. He yanked the phone from its socket and promptly hurled it at the nearest wall, only satisfied when he heard a CRUNCH and the falling pieces of dark plastic.

However, his mood turned to bitter melancholy as he though about the woman who claimed to be his mother. Maybe she was in the biological sense. But in everything that mattered, she was dead to him and always will be.

With that in mind, he grabbed the vodka and roughly brought it to his dry lips, almost knocking his perfect white teeth in the process, and took a long swig, relishing in the burning sensation it produced against his throat. Once he was done, he set the bottle down, replacing it with the Swiss Army knife as his object of choice.

Now that his past was behind him and his mind was at ease, he flipped the knife open and became an artist. Using its cool stainless steel blade as a paintbrush and his scarred forearm serving as a canvas, he began to carve line number nineteen.

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End note: And there you have it, my first completed and posted piece. If anyone somehow stumbles upon this, reads it and appreciates it, I’ll have accomplished something.