The cake was too large. It sat on the table like a white boulder, sweating under the heat lamps. You stared at it. The frosting was cracked. A web of sugar dusted the plate.

"Happy birthday, Dad," said the choir.

They stood in a semicircle. Their faces were smooth. Their smiles were identical. You did not clap. You cut the cake. The knife scraped the ceramic. The sound was loud.

"Cut it," your mother said. She held out her plate. Her eyes were wide. Her hands were shaking.

You sliced a piece. It was jagged. You put it on her plate. She did not eat. She looked at you. She looked at the cake. She looked at the door.

"You look thin," she said.

"I am fine," you said.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

She nodded. She picked up a fork. She pricked the cake. She did not eat it. She watched you. The fork trembled in her hand.

The room was full of people. They were your colleagues. They were your friends. They were strangers. They stood in the corners. They held their drinks. They watched you.

"Thank you," you said.

You turned to the window. The glass was fogged. You wiped it with your sleeve. Outside, the street was dark. A car passed. Its lights swept the room.

"He seems distant," a voice said.

You turned. It was Mr. Holloway. He was your boss. He held a glass of wine. His face was red.

"He is my father," you said.

"He is a difficult man," Holloway said. "He demands too much."

"I am his son," you said.

"You are his prisoner," Holloway said. He smiled. It was a thin smile. "Like the rest of us."

You looked at your mother. She was still watching the cake. The fork was raised. The cake was crumbling.

"Mom," you said.

She did not answer. She put the fork down. She wiped her mouth. She stood up. She walked to the window. She pressed her face to the glass.

"Let's go," she said.

"Stay," you said. "It is my birthday."

"I am tired," she said.

"You are always tired."

"I am old."

"You are not old."

"Leave me," she said.

She walked out. The door closed. The sound was a snap. The room went silent. The choir stared at the empty space.

"Go after her," Holloway said.

"I will not."

"She is your mother."

"She is a liar."

You turned back to the cake. You cut another piece. You ate it. It was dry. It tasted of wax.

The party continued. The music played. It was a waltz. It was fast. It was loud. You danced. You did not want to. Your feet moved on their own. Your hands were empty.

A woman appeared. It was Margaret. She was your sister. She had not been there before. She was wearing black. Her hair was wet.

"You look well," she said.

"Margaret."

"You have not changed."

"I have changed."

"Your father says you are broken."

"My father is wrong."

"Is he?"

"Yes."

She looked at the cake. She looked at you. She sat down. She picked up a glass. She drank.

"He is afraid," she said.

"Of what?"

"Of you."

"Why?"

"Because you are free."

You laughed. It was a short laugh. It died in your throat.

"He locked me in the study," you said. "For a week."

"He wants to control you."

"He wants to break me."

"He has tried for years."

"Did it work?"

"Ask him."

You looked at the door. Your mother was gone. Your sister was here. The clock ticked. The music stopped. The lights dimmed.

"Come with me," Margaret said.

"Where?"

"Out."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I am a monster."

She looked at you. Her eyes were soft. Her hands were cold.

"You are not a monster," she said. "You are a man."

"I am a sinner."

"Who said that?"

"My father."

"He is a fool."

"He is my father."

"He is a jailer."

You stood up. The floor was sticky. You looked at the cake. The knife was still in it.

"I will stay," you said.

"Stay?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I must face him."

Margaret stood up. She brushed her dress. She looked at you. She shook her head.

"You are stubborn," she said.

"I am strong."

"You are blind."

She walked away. She disappeared into the crowd. You were alone. The cake was before you. The knife was waiting.

You picked up the knife. You held it tight. Your hand shook. The blade was cold. The cake was white. The room was dark.

You cut the cake. You cut it in half. You cut it in quarters. You cut it in eighths. The pieces fell. They hit the floor. They made a mess.

Your father entered. He did not announce himself. He walked in. He saw the mess. He saw the knife. He saw you.

"What is this?" he said.

"I cut the cake," you said.

"Why?"

"I was angry."

"You are always angry."

"I am free."

"You are nothing."

He walked to the table. He put his hand on your shoulder. His grip was tight. His fingers dug into your skin.

"Look at me," he said.

You looked at him. His eyes were dark. His face was hard. He was a statue. He was a wall.

"You are my son," he said.

"I know."

"You are my property."

"I am not."

"You are."

He pulled you close. His face was near yours. He smelled of alcohol. He smelled of fear.

"I love you," he said.

"I know."

"I will fix you."

"How?"

"I will break you."

"I am already broken."

He laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a cracking sound.

"No," he said. "You are whole. I will make you perfect."

He pushed you. You fell. You hit the floor. The cake was under you. The sugar was on your face. The knife was in your hand.

"Stay down," he said.

You did not stay down. You stood up. You wiped your face. The sugar stuck to your skin.

"I will not stay down," you said.

He looked at you. He was surprised. He was afraid.

"You are weak," he said.

"I am strong."

"You are a child."

"I am a man."

He stepped forward. He raised his hand. He was going to hit you.

You raised the knife. The blade caught the light. It was a flash. It was a star.

"Stop," you said.

He stopped. He looked at the knife. He looked at your face. He saw the blood on your hand. It was a drop. It was red.

"You would kill me?" he asked.

"I would protect myself."

"You are a monster."

"You made me."

He fell back. He sat in a chair. His face was pale. His hands were shaking. He looked at the floor. He looked at you.

"I am sorry," he said.

"I do not believe you."

"I love you."

"I do not care."

He stood up. He walked to the door. He stopped. He turned back.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Home."

"I am home."

"No."

"Yes."

He opened the door. The night was cold. The wind was loud.

"Stay," he said.

"I will stay."

He closed the door. He left. The room was empty. The cake was on the floor. The knife was in your hand.

You sat down. You put the knife down. You picked up a piece of cake. You ate it. It tasted of metal. It tasted of fear.

You waited. The clock ticked. The lights flickered. The room was silent.

You thought of your mother. She was gone. She was free.

You thought of Margaret. She was gone. She was free.

You thought of your father. He was gone. He was free.

You were alone. You were the center. You were the eye.

The cake was gone. The floor was clean. The knife was gone.

You stood up. You walked to the window. You wiped the glass. The street was dark. A car passed. Its lights swept the room.

You looked at your reflection. Your face was white. Your eyes were dark. You looked old. You looked young.

You smiled. It was a small smile. It was a real smile.

You opened the window. The air came in. It was cold. It was fresh.

You breathed. The air filled your lungs. It filled your heart.

You were alive. You were here. You were now.

The story ended. The night began. You were free.