(I am sorry if this does not line up exactly with the correct traditions)

“Ida! Ida!” sang my twin brother as he bounded down the stairs. “Look!”

“At what? Your dumb face?”

He frowns at me before holding out the calendar we keep on our refrigerator. The 15th of August is circled in pink marker.

“You see this? Today is that day, ding-dong. Tell me happy birthday.”

“No.”

He frowns again. “Fine. I’ll go first. Happy birthday.”

I sigh before mumbling, “Happy birthday, Emil.”

He pats my head before running off to show others.

I walk into our kitchen where Mama is hanging up banners. The red flag with a white cross shape is everywhere decorations could possibly go. I see a cake baking in the oven. A classic one, not a kagemand. Emil and I don’t like those. Emil doesn’t ever want to cut it, and I just think it is straight up horrifying.

Mama waves at me as begins to prepare the red and white icing to go on the cake. I see my little brother Felix coloring on one of the kitchen floor tiles in permanent marker, though I do nothing about it. I see my other brother Soren snickering behind the kitchen table. He must have given little Felix the markers.

“Felix, may I borrow that lovely blue marker right there?” I ask. He chews on the cap before handing me the slobbery marker.

“There go, Iya!” He says.

“Great! Thanks!” I walk over to the table and climb on top of it. I scoot to the corner, above Soren, and drop the uncapped blue marker onto his messy blonde hair.

He looks up at me. “You little-“ He glances toward Mama before whispering, “Klaptorsk.”

“Oh well.”

I hear Mama taking the cake out of the oven. Malthe runs into the kitchen after ramming into the wall.

“You blind? There’s a wall right there.”

“Yeah, I know, you filth.”

“Pardon me?”

“You deaf? I said I know.”

I scowl at him as I walk over to the stove. We keep all our knives in the drawer next to it. Big knives, small knives. Butcher knives, pocket knives. I quietly open the drawer while Mama is occupied with decorating the cake. I take out our finest cake cutting knife and stick it in my skirt pocket.

I head upstairs to the room I get all to myself while my brothers have to share. My room is idiocy-free and the only bedroom our nine cats and two dogs will step foot in. Occasionally, Baby Otto will wander in, to which I promptly pick him up and put him over the baby gate into the parlor, where he is not supposed to be. It sends Mama into a fit. She usually puts him in the nursery, but my oldest brother Matias takes him back to the parlor and traps him behind the sofa.

Today, Baby Otto was not in my room, to my delight. I gingerly take the cake knife out of my pocket after closing the door and locking it. The blade is sharp and has a comfortable hilt. It’s the perfect thing. I used to go hunting with Papa before the incident. None of my brothers liked it. I did. I consider myself a hunting expert.

I unsheathe the knife and stare at my glacial blue eyes in the mirror. I press the blade to my forearm. I instantly feel warm blood. This is wonderful. Mama refused to buy me a pocket knife last year. That was clever of her. But I am more clever.

“Cake time!” I hear from the bottom of the stairs.

I sheathe the knife, stick it back in my pocket, bandage my arm with an old pair of pants, then run down into the kitchen. Felix, Baby Otto, and Anders have already smeared their faces with icing and blackberries. I see Astrid and Max sitting at the table. I suppose they decided to come. I didn’t think their parents would allow it. What a treat they are in for.

“Ok. Let’s sing Happy Birthday since Max doesn’t know the words to our song,” Mama says.

I take a seat next to Emil as everyone begins singing the classic birthday song. We blow out the candles, almost catching the little tissue paper flag on fire. Mama cuts the cake for us, serving everyone a piece. My seven-year-old brother throws a blackberry at me as I take my first bite of cake. I grab a spoon and throw it at him when Mama is not paying attention.

“Hey, dork face, what happened to your arm?” asks Adam in a very loud voice.

“Shut your face before I snap you in half,” I threaten.

“Oh, Idabel, honey. What happened? Did you cut yourself climbing in the tree again?” Mama asks, concern in her voice.

“Nope.”

“Oh- then what happened?”

“I cut myself.”

Mama sighs. She doesn’t understand. I don’t expect her to, though. She is only my mother.

“May I be excused?” I ask politely.

“Ida, you haven’t even finished your cake. I mean you can give it to me,” Emil says.

“No. Now, may I be excused?”

Mama nods. I walk to the doorway and flip the light switch. The room goes dark.

“Ida, turn the hecking light back on!” Adam yells at me. If we were not in the presence of an adult, another word would have slipped out.

“Once I’m finished.”

“Idabel, please,” Mama says.

“Once I’m finished,” I repeat.

I silently take the knife out of my pocket. No one moves. No one has been excused. I must get the American boy, then Emil. Or maybe vice versa. Or maybe just Emil. Yes.

Just Emil.

I feel my way to Emil’s chair. He deserves this. I put the knife up to his throat. Blood runs down his neck. I hear him struggling before I stick the knife into his chest.

“Happy birthday, brother.”