How every hostel birthday goes!

People stood around and sang and shouted. This was a spectacle to them. I was the gladiator, a mangled mass of pubescent tendencies. I was too young to die, yet too old to be willing to do this. I held the knife with the military precision my father had taught me to. As I dug with extreme precision dug into the target, it's soft surface gave in. The crowd got louder and drifted into a transcendental hysteria of anticipation.

The cake had been cut. They were ready.

"Bencho, maro usko! Birthday hai! Treat de saale!"

That was the war cry. I ran. I ran in vain. My fate had been decided. My ass was going to die.

"Happy Birthday to me", I said to myself as they engulfed me like enraged zombies with the only aim of subjecting me to the pain they were familiar with.