Cakes and currents

‘No, no,’ I can feel my inner child wince as I call back to him. But he can’t really hear. I call at night back to where it began and imagine just eating the cake. Time, time. What are we to make of it? Regrets are all upstream and done, but they muddy all our currents. We’re all doomed, you know, not just me. I am your problem, yes, but we’re all in this same problem. Regretting. Where’ve you been pushed? You know where I’ve been pushed to... the destination wasn’t good, so I’m hated. Yours is acceptable, and you’re tolerated.

One way like a stream, not like the wind that adventures. But I’m getting distracted, I know. And you want the facts. I hated her. There we go. Release postponed! Motive clear! Back to the cell...

Blackbirds sung on the windowsill. I used to love the park. Oh don’t worry. I can see you are. Like a stream that follows, does what it’s told by the waters that rushed before: I ended up doing the same, yes. I know the world hates me for it. That’s why I’m telling this story. Don’t be hurt. You’ll want to hate me still if I say some more. Can I? I’ll never get anything back - I don’t expect it.

I pulled my arm back. My tummy grumbled. The kitchen was empty, though. It’s all that’s there. I reached back for the cake stand. In the living room, my mother tuned her guitar. Everything was almost ready. Just these final twangs. No, not quite right. Twang. Better. Twang. Good. And the next string. Twing. No. Twing. Still no. The knife hit the bottom of the cake stand. I paused waiting for another twing. Had she heard? Worried, I stared at the knife plunged deep into the cake. I pulled it out and ran to my room. ‘John!’ I heard her call. ‘Johnny...’ I hid under my bed with the blade. Creaking floorboards told me she was on her way, and there was nowhere to hide the knife, nor the currants and chocolate fudge streaked across it. I took to it with my tongue. Gently I scooped the pieces off.

I know you think I was an idiot, I could have cut myself etc. What would you have done, what does your inner child tell you? I know it was a long time ago that people saw you as a child. But your inner child... it sticks with you. It stuck with me. Stuck like the fudge stuck to my face.

In a panic, I tried to rub it into the carpet. That’s what she beat me for more than anything. I said sorry. She cried as she drew her shoe across my head. Again. Again. The knife, I thought, when the blood began to pour. Her party would have been ruined. Then I’d really deserve it. Kids don’t think these things through and it stresses the rest of us. I ran to the park and watched. Watched like you’re watching now. She was upset as she ran to the ambulance.

That’s the story I’m telling you. Is it the one you need?