The cupcake was the most glorious thing that I had ever seen. Scattered bits of clumped dog food and crumpled feathers peaked through the thick layer of grease and chocolate icing that made the pastry slump to the side in a soggy heap. To my dismay, I wouldn’t have the pleasure of indulging my taste buds with the savory treat I had just concocted in my Easy Bake Oven. It was a surprise for my dog, Happy, that just so happened to share my birthday. I smiled in satisfaction as I lit the candle, and proceeded in a slobbery attempt at a hearty whistle.

It wasn’t long before my furry companion bounded into the room to greet me with a wagging tail and fur that was suspiciously wet. I outstretched my arms expecting a hug, but I was knocked over by a large, fluffy mound of what smelled like my father’s whiskey. His slobber was a pretty good indication that he smelled the dead bird from a mile away, and he would take no prisoners. Before I could even think to stop him, it happened.

Happy’s plate was on the floor, and he was engulfed in flames. My heart sank to the pits of my toenails as my lungs slowly filled with salt. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t run for help, and if I could, my father was probably too deep into a drunken stupor to be of much use anyway. Instead, I sat stunned and helpless as seawater burned through the sockets of my eyes, and my nostrils were molested by the smell of smoke and burning flesh. I just sat as I watched my happiness burn into a charred heap.

It was all my fault. I was old enough to know better. I knew not to play with fire, but I did anyway. I knew it could be dangerous, but I never dreamt that I’d ever be watching my best friend burn alive, listening to cries for help that I couldn’t answer. Meanwhile, my cries for help also got no answer. The only thing left to do was wait. Wait for his cries to be silenced through his melting flesh. Wait for my dad to notice me, or the smoke alarm, whatever came first. I just waited, still and heavy like a corpse as the smoke penetrated my lungs and I drifted into submission.

The only thing that I can recall after that, is my dad’s paddle when he was sober enough to use it. After that, I was sent to my room to ruminate about my actions. The only conclusion that I was able to come up with was that I was a murderer. Even a six year old can comprehend homicide. As if watching my best friend burn alive on my birthday wasn’t torturous enough, I still had a mess to clean.

The charred remains of my Little Tykes kitchen was adorned in melted fur and crimson stains. The golden tag that was once a collar rested atop his ashes like a lighthouse in the center of a monsoon. There I was, permanently traumatized and sitting in blood and ash of the only thing that ever loved me, and in the center of it all was a golden plate that read “Happy”.