"Happy birthday, Phoebe," my friends cried out.

I blew out the eighteen candles one by one, stopping for a few painful seconds between each, to catch my breath.

I looked up to see my parents and friends beaming at me.

I forced a smile for their sake and went on to cut the thing sitting in front of me. A cake - or that's what they called it.

Well, I had never eaten one. The closest I got was once when I had scooped up the cream from a tiffin of one of my friends and put my finger into my mouth.

The sweetness of it had burned my tongue and throat, sending me into fits of coughing. I never wanted to try it ever again.

The knife slashed through the cake as if it was slashing through my heart. I was eighteen, a freaking adult. eighteen years had passed and I hadn't gained anything in those years except a constant struggle to survive. A struggle I knew I would never win. It was all as pointless as a stupid cake.

My friends stood silently, watching me intently.

"Go, on, have the cake you all," I urged.

And with it, all hell broke loose, as a bunch of unruly teenagers jumped on my cake. Half eating, half smudging the cream, soon, everyone's faces were painted with the chocolate icing.

Someone pushed through the crowd and came right up to my chair.

"Hey Rose," I smiled at my best friend.

"Oooooo, can you believe it? You're eighteen," she squealed. "You're an adult now. We could totally hang out - No worries about parents on our backs. I can't wait. We can go shopping, party; there'll be boys queuing up... I'm so damned excited to be finally free."

Could she sound more boring?

"Yeah," I said and nodded anyway.

My idea of fun was sitting quietly by the window, gazing at the friendly white stars dotting the blue-black sky, while I let my imagination run and my hands flow lightly over the keys of my laptop.

I had to stop frequently to give my sore fingers a break, but at least it was fun and something I could do on my own.

I had always wanted to voice my thoughts and since my own voice wasn't enough, my pen, or rather my printer's ink spoke for me. All the things I did, every moment, every joy and sorrow were forever stored in the digital memory of my laptop.

My mother, sliding into the now empty seat beside me, disturbed my daydreaming.

She gently took my chin in her hands and lifted my face, making me look into her eyes.

"What's the matter dear?" she lightly put an arm around my shoulders. "It's your special day. Why are you sad?"

"I'm hungry," I lied, turning my face away to hide the tears which threatened to spill.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she jumped to her feet. "How could I have forgotten? I'm going to prepare your feed right now."

Without another word, she strode off into the kitchen. I followed her, utterly disinterested in my birthday party.

She opened up the cans of ready-made feed, pouring them into a bowl, mixing it all with the required amount of water, stirring until each lump fell apart.

The whole mixture went into the blender. She didn't need to, but my mother was always extra cautious. There would be no lumps of food to get caught.

And as the blender whirred before my eyes, forming a mixture of liquefied puree, I pulled mom close to me, trying my best to force back the tears.

She touched my cheeks and kissed the tears away, "What's wrong, love. "

"Mom, why is everyone so excited about my birthday?"

"Because you're finally one year older and an adult. You'll have voting rights and your own visa and passport and..."

"And how about I'm a year closer to death, Mom?" I interrupted her.

"Phoebe, we promised not to talk about that..." she began.

"You can't go on pretending that it's not true. I'm dying Mom. If not tomorrow, I'll die in a few years. I'll never be cured, never be normal. I'll continue to be different. To be a freak of nature, an accident of fate. And you can't deny it. Face it, Mom," I vented out all the thoughts knotting in my stomach since the morning.

"If you're done talking, could we please go forward with the feeding?" she said getting up.

"No," I grabbed her hand again. "I'll feed myself. Don't worry. Answer me, Mom. Why do you all take everything so positively? Life isn't what you think it to be."

"You and I have a completely different take on life," she responded, averting her eyes.

"It's because you're not the one who's dying," I screamed before realizing what I had said.

She froze, a dark shadow forming over her face. Her eyes became dark, unfathomable pools.

"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I didn't mean to say it in that way."

She moved abruptly to the door, lingering for a moment at the threshold. "I need to go," she mumbled. "If you need help with the feeding, call me."

"I'm sorry," I said again, but she had gone.

Reviewed by lindajonesAuthor

A/N Do you think Phoebe's behaviour is justified?

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