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He realized that he had forgotten his birthday. Not Bragi’s birthday, although now that he thought about it, that one too, but his birthday. Luxu’s birthday.
He felt utterly alone.
Masking his feelings, he gave his classmates the slight, cheeky smile he was known for and blew out the tilting candle on the falling apart cake they’d clearly handmade. He felt a pang of bemusement, that these children had done such an awful job, reminding him of his own efforts so long, long ago, when he’d similarly been a child, making the Master a cake.
When was the Master’s birthday again? He couldn’t remember that either, wisps of memory nearly resurfacing, only to vanish again, lost forever.
There had been so many birthdays he’d been forced to celebrate. His bodies’ birthdays. His bodies’ friends’ and families’ birthdays. They all blurred one to the next, a muddied pile of customs that changed like a kladescope, until he grew used to never knowing what to expect. He’d gotten in trouble more than once, for being “rude.” At this point, he didn’t care.
He wondered if anyone remembered his real birthday. Did the Master? His fellow apprentices? Or had they too succumbed to the long pull of countless crammed in memories and forgotten? Did they even remember their own?
Numbly, he opened the gifts presented to him, surreptitiously checking that his smile remained fixed on his face. Feigned enthusiasm at this one, a forced laugh at that one, clearly meant as a joke.
Everything was dull, dull, dull. How much longer must he wait? How many more times must he go through this?
At first, he’d felt guilt. Being celebrated in place of someone who was no longer there. A dead man walking. Then he’d decided he’d let himself enjoy what he received. Good food, the celebratory trappings of each body’s culture. Then came the ennui.
Now everything was boredom, numbness, and despair.
How much longer must this life drag on?