I was, after all, just a bad dream [+18]

VI

TW: Pete is going to kiss someone other than Vegas.

———

I don't remember if I ever liked birthday parties. Which can seem kind of weird if you think about it. Who wouldn't want to be the center of attention for a day? Surrounded by people pretending they actually want to be there for you—on your day, the day you were forced into existence. It's like a personal holiday with decorations, awkward small talk, and cake. Yes, the cake always was the best part of it actually. People must like it. But I don't remember if as a child, I did.

When Venice was born, we made sure to celebrate his every year. I was determined. His other dad too. We were both kids from broken homes, and birthdays weren't exactly something we looked forward to like any other kids.

I don't even remember my family ever gathering around to celebrate the fact that I, too, took my first breath one day. Thanks to my Dad, I guess. He made sure we felt as miserable as he did, because why should anyone be happy when he couldn't?

My mom tried, though. She really did. I can still picture the little cupcake she'd bring—half-melted icing sliding off the side, a single sad candle barely holding on in the center. We'd hide under the sheets in my childhood bedroom, her beautiful face glowing softly in the flickering light, where she would sing in a whispering voice, "Happy birthday."

And it was kind of perfect in its own tragic way.

After she died, there were no more soft singing, no more hidden celebrations. No more cupcakes. My grandma tried to reach out, but it always ended with my dad slamming the phone or the door in her face. She was determined for her grandson to have his day celebrated as it should have. She never gave up.

Eventually, he was gone too, and I moved in with my grandparents. And yes, that was when it all started.

Those two celebrate everything. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the birthdays of people who've been dead for decades. In fact, my grandma still bakes a little cake every year for my mom—her daughter. A single candle, every birthday, for almost thirty years. Thirty years since she's been gone, and my grandma hasn't missed a single one.

And well, today was no exception.

"Oii! I've told you more times than I can count, son! He's a baby—we need more balloons!"

My grandma's voice echoed through the entire house, and the look on her face said it all: I was a hopeless case. I stood there, staring at a half-inflated balloon like it was about to reveal the universe's greatest secret—or at least give me a hint on how to survive both my balloon-obsessed grandma and my son, Venice, the little birthday star of the day...or should I say the 130 cm tall party planer.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, right next to her, examining a crumpled party hat like it was some kind of relic from some ancient civilization. Which means something from the distant and mystical 90s. Just like his dad.

"Pa?" Venice called out dramatically, sighing like he was already fed up with the whole thing.

He put the hat on his head, the thing literally swallowing his forehead, and gave me that look—a mix of seriousness and disbelief only him can pull off.

I squinted, trying to make out the faded text printed across the front of the hat that was clearly too big for him.

"'Take Me to Your Leader'?" I read aloud and Venice just stared back, his expression now shifting to pure disgust. "What? I think it's funny!" I shrugged, smirking a little, but he just shook his head, like I was the most uncool dad to ever exist.

Well, he wasn't entirely wrong.

For my defense, there aren't exactly a lot of party supply stores on this island. Actually, there's just one—and it's run by a 79-year-old grandpa who, despite the fact that I've corrected him over fifty times, still call me Pat. So, you know, limited options.

Venice squinted at me then turned back to the hat.

"Pa, this is... something you would've worn..."

"Totally—"

"...in 1994."

Ouch. That one stung. Not just because it was coming from my own kid, but also because... it was true.

"I think you're being a little dramatic, baby. It's just a hat," I said, shrugging it off while blowing up another balloon and trying to not get lightheaded and collapsing on the floor.

But Grandma, of course, wasn't about to let it slide.

"It's not just a hat, son! It's crooked! And if the hat's crooked, the whole party's doomed! And then the birthday will be ruined, and it will haunt you—and my little baby—forever!"