(no subject)
birthday.
A cardboard hat sat on her head, the gloss reflecting the dancing flame on the single candle on the Twinkie. Diana, known more commonly by her nickname, Disarray, sat alone in the darkened kitchen. She half sang, half hummed a version of “Happy Birthday” that had a tone more of a death march than a celebratory tune. With a quick puff at the end of the song, the candle went out.
“Happy Birthday to me,” she said, wishing her wish yet again. A wish for a family. A wish for friends.
Faye, her mother, was on a business as usual and her father, well she’d never known him. Her only other relative was her gran who had recently moved to Florida. So here she was, a newly turned 10 year old girl, her inky black hair blending with the pitch of room’s lightlessness while her skin lighter than most kids was faintly seen. She pushed up her glasses before rising to switch on the lights. Sitting alone in the dark wouldn’t make her feel any better and would help no one.
Within ten years, she didn’t have to sit in the dark on her birthdays. She had friends, friends who loved her. She was starting her own family, which she’d love and care for.
Young Diana didn’t know this yet, as she was just an average ten-year-old, alone with her books and movies and drum set.