A Birthday Story

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 and cheers. I close my eyes, make a wish, and blow out the candles on the cake. There sure are a lot of them.

I open my eyes to a strange scene. 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 my birthday, but people are not here to celebrate my birth. They are here to celebrate my death. 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; the Grim Reaper stands beside me, waiting to harvest my soul. I feel light as a wispy cloud, and I float above the bench, free of shackles, my body motionless below. I’m dying.

The room fades to black. This is my end. I must be dead. I await my reward…or punishment.

I see a faint light that grows brighter as I move towards it. Is this heaven? I sure hope so. I don’t want to go to that other place, although I probably deserve it.

Everything looks blurry, and I’m disoriented. Where am I?

My eyes focus and gain clarity, and I’m relieved at the sight. I’m back at the birthday party! The lights in 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. I breathe a deep sigh of relief.

I’m startled as someone touches my arm. It’s my wife. “Are you okay, honey?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” I say, and I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Probably low blood sugar or something.”

She flashes a knowing smile and hands me a piece of cake and a cup of coffee. “This will help with that,” she says. “Happy birthday, my love.”

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. There are only friendly faces here. It was all in my mind after all.

Friends playfully pat me on the back. One says, “hey birthday boy, you look a little pale. All this excitement getting to ya?”

“Too much excitement for this old man,” I laugh. “I am a little light-headed. I need fresh air.”

I excuse myself and step onto the back patio. A few people are already there, smoking and talking. They nod to me as I walk to the far side of the patio and take a few deep breaths to regain composure. Breathe in…breathe out…in…out…slowly…ahh…that’s better. The brisk night air invigorates me, clears my head, and calms my nerves. I don’t feel as disoriented anymore.

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

I look up at the stars glittering in the dark, moonless 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 shudder as a most horrifying thought sweeps over me.

What if this moment is the illusion? What if I am actually strapped to the bench 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,” I cry, but no one hears me. 

My eyes flutter open. Oh, no! I’m back in the execution chamber, restrained, unable to move. I feel my life ebb away as the lethal cocktail takes its course, and the light fades in one last gasp in tandem with my own.

Today is my birthday.

Today is my execution day.