A Birthday Story

By Jesse Eric Whitehead

Today is my birthday. My guests gather around me at the table, all in good spirits. I’m so glad they are here to celebrate with me today. Birthdays only come once a year, you know.

“Make a wish,” someone says, and everyone laughs. I close my eyes, make a wish, and blow out the candles on the cake. There sure are a lot of them.

I reopen my eyes. In place of the warm glow of birthday candles, I see the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. In place of the cheerful faces of my family and friends, I see grim expressions of prison guards, a chaplain holding his prayer book, and the impassive gaze of observers behind a glass partition.

I’m strapped to a bench, a needle in my arm. The realization punches me in the gut.

Today is not my birthday party.

Today is my execution day.

I struggle against the straps to no avail. My chest heaves, my heart races, my breathing is shallow. A jumble of tortured thoughts race through my brain.

“No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” I cry, but no one hears me.

I feel the icy flow of toxic chemicals invade my veins, a brutal reminder that it is.

My life flashes before me. My family. My friends. My crimes. The years on death row. The years of endless dread, waiting for this day to come.

I am dreaming, hallucinating. The birthday party wasn’t real. It was my frantic mind in hyper-drive, vainly clinging to life in my final dying moments.

The room grows dim; death’s Grim Reaper stands beside me, waiting to claim me. I feel light, and begin to float. I’m weightless. I’m leaving my body. This is it. I’m dying.

The room fades to black.

I see a faint light. It’s growing brighter as I move towards it. This must be heaven. I sure hope so. I don’t want to go to that other place.

I open my eyes and blink; everything looks blurry. I’m disoriented. Where am I? Am I in heaven?

My eyes focus and gain clarity. I’m back at the birthday party! The lights of the room are warm and inviting. There’s my birthday cake with extinguished candles. My friends are all around, laughing, joking, and having a good time.

Someone touches my arm. It’s my wife. “Are you okay?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I look at her, unable to speak. It was all so vivid, all so real. I can still feel the sting of the needle in my arm.

I look at my arm. There is no needle. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was all in my mind after all.

My friends playfully pat me on the back. One says, “hey birthday boy, you look a little pale. All this excitement getting ya in your old age?”

“I’m fine,” I say, as I force a weak smile. “Probably too much excitement for this old man. I am a little light-headed. I need some fresh air.”

I excuse myself and step outside to the back patio. A couple of friends are there taking a smoke and talking. They nod to me as I walk to the far side of the patio. I take a few deep breaths to regain composure.  Breathe in, breathe out. Ahh…that’s better. The brisk night air invigorates, brings clarity, and helps calm my nerves. I don’t feel as disoriented anymore.

I’m still a little unsettled though. What happened a few moments ago? Was it an alternate reality? A premonition? My deepest fears tormenting me? Am I going mad?

I look up at the stars glittering brightly in the sky. So beautiful. Life is good. I need to enjoy it more, cherish it more–every moment of every day. There is so much more life to be lived. What better way to celebrate life than on my birthday, with all my friends and family?

I hear the sounds of celebration inside. Shouting, laughing, beverage glasses clinking, forks scraping on plates of cake. Everyone is having fun but me. I need to rejoin them. But I’m not ready to go back just yet.

Something bothers me. I know how people’s minds can play tricks on them. Is my mind playing tricks on me? I close my eyes and ponder. I shudder as a most horrifying thought sweeps over me.

What if this moment is the illusion? What if I am actually strapped down and helplessly restrained as the executioner takes my life? What if this is my dying mind desperately conjuring up one last torturous act of self-preservation?

I reach down to pinch myself, to make sure this moment is real. I can’t move my arms. I can’t move my legs. I struggle, but I’m paralyzed. What’s wrong with me? Am I having a stroke?

“Help me,” I cry, but no one hears me. 

Oh no! My eyes flutter open. I’m back in the execution chamber, strapped to the bench, unable to move. I feel my life ebb away as the lethal injection takes its course.

Today is my birthday. 

Today is my execution day.