sphdrabble

It’s your birthday. There are balloons everywhere, candles on a cake, banners that say “Happy Birthday Victoire”on the walls, a small tiara in your long blond hair and smiles on your family’s faces.
It’s your birthday. You are turning fourteen and you should feel happy, but you can’t. Because the colours are faded and the smiles don’t quite reach people’s ears. And you’re used to it - it’s always been like this, ever since your first birthday in May 2000.
Three years ago, you asked, “Why? Why are you all always so sad on my birthday? Don’t you love me?”, and your parents said, “Listen, Victoire…”
And now you know. You know and it’s even worse because you cannot complain. Not when so many died. Not when they died so you could live and blow your candles year after year.
So you just suffer in silence, your voice forever buried under the weight of the past.

Your name means “victory”, and your birthday belongs to History.