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The first thing Basil realized on the morning of his fifteenth birthday was that it wouldn't be a happy one.
There was a kind of tension in his stomach, fluttering like moths trying to crawl up his throat and break free into the grey morning outside. He spent a while doing nothing but laying in bed, watching shadows dance on the ceiling while hoping the mattress would absorb the fog in his head and release it when he wasn't around to catch it again.
There was only one thing on his mind when he woke up, and it made him ill to think about.
It was the smell of Polly cooking waffles that got him out of bed. She'd been making them for Basil's birthday ever since his grandmother grew too weak to do it and she had to be hired to help take care of the old lady. Basil smiled to himself as he hovered in the doorway, remembering how his grandmother insisted up and down that there should always be strawberries to serve with the birthday waffles because strawberries had always been her grandson's favorite fruit.
When she caught a glimpse of the boy, Polly grinned from ear to ear and took out a plate for him. "Happy birthday, Basil!" she chirped. "How do you like being fifteen so far?"
"So soon?" Basil replied. "I've only been fifteen for, like, five hours. That's not enough time to decide!"
"But do you feel any older?"
"I guess."
Basil took his plate and wrapped Polly in a quick hug before stacking a couple of waffles on his plate and dumping so many strawberry slices over top that they looked to be bleeding. He had no interest in eating anything today, but he made sure to eat the waffles anyway, just so Polly wouldn't think anything was wrong. She'd known for a while now that something was bothering him, yet he'd never tell her anything. How could he? He felt suffocated just being aware that this life was his and his only.
When he finished eating, he noticed that he'd hardly tasted a thing. It was odd, but it didn't bother him. He felt more certain that he'd taste the cake Polly would be picking up later in the day. With her help to actually get the words out, Basil had gone to the bakery a couple days ago and placed an order for a red velvet cake for his birthday. The usual bakery twins weren't in their spots that day; his order was taken by a different, younger bored-looking family member who Basil felt certain was one of the kids in Aubrey's gang without the cheap wig.
The taste of strawberry cake from his twelfth birthday still lingered faintly in his mouth. He remembered the smiles and the confetti and Hero accidentally buying three dozen party hats instead of three packs of six and all the photos that still lived in the front of his old photo album that made him feel sick to think about.
Basil crept into his grandmother's room, opening the door slowly so the lights from the house wouldn't blind her too fast. The woman had been growing more and more forgetful for months, but Basil still had faith she'd recognize him. Luckily for him, she was already sitting up in bed; and when she set her eyes on him, she didn't seem to forget who he was.
"Morning, Grandma." Basil gave her a little wave. "Do you know what day it is today?"
"Oh, it's...." His grandmother's voice was hoarse and croaky, and she trailed off as though trying to grasp at mental straws she couldn't quite reach.
"It's my birthday, Grandma. I'm fifteen now."
"Yes, yes, I remember. Where's Sunny?"
"He doesn't come by anymore, remember? We've been over this."
He once saw Sunny through his dining room window on a dull, grey day in September, sitting at the table motionless like a mannequin. Basil stared at him for the longest time, trying to make sense of each jutting bone and counting out each long pause between short breaths and picturing a beam of sun suddenly coming through the window and making Sunny's pale skin burst into flames. He didn't notice how long he stood there until Sunny's eyes slowly fell on him. Neither of the boys moved a muscle. They just stared at each other, tired and aching and barely conscious of the reality around them. Finally, Basil had the courage to walk off, and when he got back home, he immediately threw up.
Basil went back to his bedroom, and the moths in his stomach began to flutter again. He felt like his heart had been stretched out like bubble gum into a thin sheet before being smashed back together. There was no chance that he'd ever need Sunny again, but there was no way to let him go. While he turned fifteen and faced the world half-frostbitten, Sunny would get to rot away peacefully in that nice big house of his without ever knowing what it was like to have to fight for a right to live in peace.
Why had he decided to run like a coward after everything they'd done? Basil would've sent his heart to an underwater grave just to keep the boy afloat and out of trouble. He pictured a dusty glass jar full of murky peaches that had long been rotten, the way they were in a book he once read about kids in a work camp. The sickening taste of fruit coated his tongue, while the slimy rot coated his throat. Had he not swallowed his own share of black fruit to keep something at bay?
Aubrey had once accused him of being in love, the way he couldn't get his mind off Sunny. He wasn't sure quite how to do so. The thought of the lies the boy must've been telling himself nightly to justify leaving Basil to die filled the blond boy with nothing but fear. How could this ever be love?
He quite hated Sunny, actually.
There was a knock on the bedroom door that sounded like it came deep from underwater. Polly gently opened the door, and Basil was focused on the small box in her hands.
"What's that?" he asked.
Polly smiled. "Your mother sent this in the mail for your birthday. It came just in time, too!"
Basil didn't even know his mother. Why would she bother to remember him?
"I don't want it."
"But Basil, you don't even know what it is. Just open it up. Maybe you'll really like it."
Basil couldn't get up. There was far too much fog in his head to weigh him down. After a moment, Polly came over to him and handed him the gift. He managed to sit up and open the box, pulling out a brand-new camera. It was small and shiny and sleek and looked like it was new, fresh out of the factory and fresh on the market and now fresh in his hands. He didn't have anything to take pictures of, but it would be cruel to turn the thing down.
He forced himself to smile. "Wow, this must be one of the newest ones," he said with unconvincing wonder. "You can call and tell her I said thanks. If she'll ever answer, anyway."
He got his first camera for Christmas the same year Sunny got his violin. The camera did nothing but collect dust these days. He wanted to smash it over and over until all the little metal parts turned to fine dust and all the memories were gone. He didn't want bad memories haunting him. He didn't want good memories plaguing him. All he wanted to do was forget, and then he could start over and pretend he'd never been alone.
When Polly left the room, he lied on the mattress and stayed that way until the world grew hazy around him and the tension in his stomach and the fog in his head grew thicker and thicker past the point of ignorance. Then he shot up, shivering and tasting bile. There was something in his room that was bothering him. Maybe he could save his birthday if he tried.
Clouds of dust flew back at him as he pulled it off the bookshelf, turning it over in his hands and remembering how it felt to hold. It was deep green with curly white letters spelling out BASIL'S MEMORIES and his name plated in gold. He'd loved this photo album once upon a time before it all went wrong. If he got back into bed, he knew he'd never get up, so he sat on the floor beside it and leaned back against the mattress instead.
The smell of the photos always comforted him back in the day, and it put him at slight ease as he leafed through the pages, looking back at all the things he and his friends got into as children. There were the photos taken this time three years ago, much brighter than his birthday now. He remembered that it was warm outside that day, and the snow was already beginning to melt down to brown slush. One photo featured Kel decked out in five party hats like some mythological creature of celebration. Another featured Sunny mesmerized by a Gameboy Color he'd found at a garage sale a few weeks back.
He flipped back and forth through those photos until the tension in his stomach reached his chest and made it hard to breathe, and until his arms began to shake too much to hold it up. He wanted to get rid of this anxiety and this resentment once and for all. If anybody was to hold the knife and make the final cut, it would be him.
Sitting back on his bed, he pulled a pair of scissors out of the nearby drawer to snip the tags off the new camera. He'd made up his mind to put it where the old one used to sit. As he closed the photo album, one of the pictures came loose and fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and studied it closely.
It was one from a few years back in March, featuring Sunny and Basil sitting together in a blanket fort and reading a book. Basil couldn't remember what the book was called anymore. The younger Basil looked excited to be showing it off, and Sunny sat entranced. The two of them used to be so close. As Basil studied it, he'd come to realize that he had never grieved Sunny or bargained for him or really done anything to get the feelings out. He couldn't feel properly, and yet he thought he could just keep living like nothing had ever happened?
Bastard.
Basil frowned. Despite his resentment, he still couldn't bring himself to think of anything derogatory to describe Sunny.
We were in on this together. Why would you leave me to die like this?
They didn't care for each other anymore, but they never seemed to want to leave.
Sunny, I trusted you. I trusted you with everything. Who are you---you especially---to decide who's good and who's evil?
The scissors were in his hand, and he couldn't stop shaking.
I swear on everything I love, I'll keep living so you can change your mind one day. And if you don't? I'll do it just to make your life hell.
Snip.
The sound of the scissors was sharp and clean, and the bottom part of the photo drifted onto the carpet. That didn't make Basil feel any better, though. He wanted to stop resenting. He wanted to forget. Why would he just keep a whole album of memories lying around?
Trembling for his life, he reached into the drawer, grabbed a black marker, and began to scribble.
At first, he tried to keep it small and orderly, only covering faces neatly. But once he finished the first photo, he grew sick. No, kindness and mercy wouldn't do.
Like a rabid animal, he scribbled for his life, pressing on the marker hard enough for every stroke to crush the tip further and further until it would go flat like a bingo stamp, taking out entire pages. He didn't care that these were meant to be his prized possessions. So what if this was all he had left of Mari? He still got to see her mangled neck and her purple, waxy, rotting face in his dreams every night. His marker went flat, so he dug out another one. Ink bled through the pages and stained his hands. He felt like a little kid who just learned to color wearing down a crayon. He felt himself growing lighter and lighter the darker the photos became.
He got a nasty wrist cramp, and he dropped the marker. Every page of the photo album was glistening with black ink, and he suddenly became aware that he was panting. The moths in his stomach finally fluttered somewhere else far away. The fog in his head had cleared. Carefully, he closed the photo album. The outside was pretty and smooth while the inside was dirty and rotten. What would he do with it now?
As far as Polly and his grandmother knew, he was going to Fix-It to pick up some flower seeds. His hands were beginning to turn purple as he dug through the snow in the lake hangout the way a dog digs up a buried animal. He had no idea how deep the hole was. It couldn't get very deep; everything was frozen. He gently placed the photo album in the hole and gave it one last sad smile. He could make some new memories if he really wanted to. He knew Aubrey and her new friends liked to hang out here, and a part of him secretly hoped she'd find it when the snow melted.
Basil brushed the frost from his jeans and kicked all the snow and dirt back into place over the photo album.
Come back for me, Sunny. I'll be waiting.
He left the lake as a much calmer man, knowing he'd never need those memories ever again.