It was the day of James and Lisa’s wedding, the happiest day of their life. They, being very wealthy, managed to grab themselves a wedding ceremony in the island paradise of Barbados. From where I was sitting, I could capture the picturesque scenery: cliffs, infected with trees, stretched along the south coast for miles, palm trees lined the edge of the golden sands of Belair Bay and finally the crystal-clear ocean spanned beyond for as far the eye could see.

The sun was setting, and I was laying on my diamond-encrusted platter on top of a thick, mahogany table that I had been set on. A grand four-layer red velvet I was. Pastel colours painted the sky: rust orange, deep purple and a blazing red were the lights that stood out to me. Dotted around me were various delicacies. Then, I started to realize that one by one, they fell like flies. First it was the mini sausage rolls, then the olives were gone, as was the bread and an empty feeling swept over me. Could this warm, sultry summer’s evening end up being my death?

From then on all I felt was panic. The lights, the music and the voices were all too much for me. People swarmed around me, I saw Lisa’s friend take a donut, then James’ brother grab two cinnamon swirls: I knew my time had come. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hide after all I was a cake.

Finally, the music stopped; James and Lisa strode towards me holding what looked like a large kitchen knife. After that, it was all a blur and the last thing I remember was a sharp, icy feeling through my top layer and all went dark…