13

Unlucky.

But which thirteen-year old feels unlucky when they've a beautiful birthday cake in front of them? Faces scrunched in careful concentration, they blow out the candles on the cake in one go, frowning in disappointment if one flickers to life faintly. Impatiently, the last candle is blown out, to appreciate cheers and hoots. Vicious triumph. After all, the life of a dream begins with the death of a flame.

His hand inches casually towards her thigh. She watches it, aloof. Around her, girls giggle, pointing. The whole world's watching. Nobody cares. Nobody seems to notice that she's petrified, that it's unfair, that she didn't invite it. It's taken for granted that she wants the school hero, at a majestic nineteen, whether she understands what's happening or not. She doesn't want to attract any more attention. Shuffles. Her back hits the wall. No way out.

I'm thirteen, she thinks, closing her eyes. The image of the last candle flickers in her eye. Extinguished, like her childhood.