The Celebration

August 16th. It is my birthday. It was my birthday. That was my last day of freedom. That was the last day I was out of this wretched room. 365 days have passed since then, and it’s been my personal hell. At this point in life, I have passed desperation, passed disbelief, and am approaching acceptance of my plight.

That morning I awoke, happy to greet the world! It was, after all, my birthday. I was braced for the onslaught of well wishers and prank gifts from coworkers, and was sure that there was a surprise party planned by a certain special someone. 27 years old and having just gotten a promotion, this was sure to be a great birthday as there was a lot to celebrate.

None of it happened. None. I didn’t get a single happy birthday wish on social media, from coworkers, my girlfriend, not even a free brownie from my favorite restaurant. By the end of the day I had spiraled my way into a level of anger and disbelief I really had not previously experienced. I angrily left home to find some dinner and landed at the bar of my favorite restaurant, dejectedly grazing on my dinner and sipping a craft beer.

“You seem a bit down, Sport. You ok?”

Not a familiar voice. I looked to my right and the older guy sitting there was attempting a nearly toothless smile, and looking like a shower might be overdue, but who was I to judge? He would probably understand a forgotten birthday at the very least. Why not indulge him with some conversation? Cheaper than a therapist.

“Just here having some dinner. I was thinking I might be invisible until you said something. Have you eaten?” He didn’t look like he had a crisp twenty dollar bill in his wallet, maybe not even a wallet. Might as well offer, misery loves company, right?

“Oh I’ve eaten enough,” the old man replied. “I’m just here having a drink. Kind of an escape from my own isolation, if you will. What’s got ya down, kid?”

With a sigh, I outlined the events of the day. My birthday. Maybe I had set my expectations too high, built up my self-importance too much, and set myself up for disappointment. As I told him about the day, I found myself feeling a bit justified in how I was feeling, even showing a bit of spite toward acquaintances and family members. I mean, how could they just forget me? This guy complained about being isolated, but I have people all around me and feel more isolated than he possibly could.

We had a few drinks together as I lamented. He offered no advice or payment for any of the rounds of drinks, but I didn’t expect it. Raising an eyebrow and ready with a nod as he sipped another drink was enough.

I needed to get home, and summoned an Uber to assist in the task. He offered that he was 10 minutes from home so I let him add his stop into my application. After listening to all of my self-deprecation and rejection of those who are supposed to be present, a fair trade.

I let myself into my home ready to nestle into my bed. In my drunken stupor I tried to post something on my social media wall but I am almost certain that I fell asleep before I could accomplish this task. What a miserable day.

Then I woke up in this room. This… prison. This… fate. Simple, needs met, and absolute torture. There is a bed against the wall, a toilet without a door, shower with no curtain, mirror above the sink that cannot be broken despite efforts, and a bookshelf of classic titles like Catcher in the Rye and A Tale of Two Cities. Had I ever wished for time to read, it was fulfilled. 62 books, all read twice over and now missing every blank page that I have carefully torn out of them. 188 pages. That is the entirety of the accoutrements available, except this makeshift pen.

The walls are made of cinder blocks painted an eggshell color, quite the institutional feel. The only door is as solid as the walls, made of material that tops the indestructible wood scale. There is no give when pushed, no hinges, and no doorknob, just a blank slate of wood. I’ve only been able to scrape a small gash in the wood every day that I’ve been here.

To the right of the bed is a vent that funnels in cool air. At least I’m comfortable. Nestled high on the left wall is a small window that I cannot look out of. Nor can I reach the tiny ledge, leaving its only purpose of marking the coming and passing of the days. From the orange hue that leaks from it now, night will soon fall and I will need to sleep, or stare into absolute darkness.

I will awaken, the same as I have done for 365 days. When I open my eyes to the grey light filtering through the window, it starts again. In the middle of the room with no evidence of how it got there, will be a hefty slice of chocolate cake with an unlit candle stuck into it alongside a plastic fork, sitting atop a small paper plate. That has been my daily meal for all this time, and I am past any enjoyment, as well as disgust of it. It is simply food, and I eat it because I must. Starvation has robbed my decision in the matter.

At first, it was the most delectable chocolate cake that I had ever tasted. Moist and creamy, with just a hint of that chocolate bitterness in the frosting. Rich and decadent, with that first bite screaming for a chaser of cold milk. Now the thought of it turns to terror. How does it get here, who makes it, why do they have me here, and why is chocolate cake my only food? How do I never awaken to them bringing it in? What else could they do to me in my sleep?

The cake will be eaten, save for a part of the chocolate frosting. I keep a bit and mix in a touch of water to make an ink of sorts, and break three tines off of the plastic fork to make it a quill that I use to scratch my thoughts onto the blank parchment torn from the books on the shelf. This is the only outlet of sanity left to me, within my little box.

I cannot help but think about my family and friends. I hope they remembered my birthday this year. Maybe a toast to me, or a little get together. Sure I was too invested in my job and neglected some relationships, but success was important. I remember my girlfriend telling me last year not to make plans for the weekend, and I wonder what she had planned. I wish I had answered her call while I was drinking with the old man, what was his name? Did I ever ask? She probably figured I was still working. I never answered her phone calls while working. She knew not to interrupt me with even a text message. That would be nice right now. That would make this hell more bearable.

I was driven to succeed, and let work take over my life. She was second place, my folks were third, and nothing would distract or hinder me. Over this year I have thought about the dinners and outings, fishing days and football games that I was invited to attend but declined. I always had to work. This is what regret feels like. This is what it feels like to have a life without memories of more than sales orders, charts, conference calls, and being at the top of my field.

I missed my girlfriend’s birthday, my parent’s, my coworkers – even chiding them for celebrating a little too hearty, it’s just a birthday. Maybe I deserved nobody to notice my own. I was selfish and focused only on my success at work, while failing to be successful at everything else. I would definitely do it differently, now. Darkness falls. Happy Birthday to me.

ESCAPE

As I wake up I hear birds chirping – BIRDS CHIRPING??? I sit bolt upright in bed. I haven’t heard birds chirping in a year. What day? It’s 366! It’s warm in here. What is … the door is not closed. The AC vent is not blowing. What has happened? I tiptoe to the door and give it a push, and the thing moves! I throw my full weight into it and it swings open into a large… building or factory. It seems abandoned and my little square appears to have been built directly into the corner of the concrete building.

There’s no person in sight and I waste zero time. I retreat only to snatch up my chocolate inked diary and bolt out the open door, completely unsure of where I am going. Looking for an exit, which is all I care about. I can smell freedom. I am a wild animal breaking free of its cage. Running. I’m already out of breath. A year of no cardio has taken a toll but I don’t care. Let my lungs burn. I burst through an industrial door into the sunshine. All I can do is laugh. And run.

A guy in a pickup pulls alongside and asks if I’m ok. I tell him where my parents live and ask if he can help me. He agrees and joy I haven’t felt in a decade overwhelms me. Home. Mom. Dad. I need to call my girlfriend, but I’m sure she’s moved on. I don’t care. That’s later. FREEDOM.

I shed small tears as the man drives. I know he wants to ask, but all I can say is “thank you,” repeatedly. We pull up to my parent’s house and I bound up the steps to beat on the door, tears falling anew. My dad answers with a hearty “SON!” I fall into his arms and sobs wrack my body. Mom comes running up to hug me as well.

After relaying to them what had been going on my dad suggested that I get myself a shower and then we can decide what to do. Mom says she will get lunch together, I look like I’m hungry. Good ol’ mom. Always ready to feed me. I get out of the shower feeling human again, and I hear a familiar voice. My girlfriend! She’s here! I run out of the bathroom still damp and pulling clothes on only to have her run into my arms.

We sit at the kitchen table and I begin recounting my story. I was in for some news of my own, however. She said that I had disappeared a year ago the day before my birthday. I was so involved with work I had celebrated my own birthday a day early. Nobody forgot, I was early. She pulled up her phone and showed me the last post I made on social media. I hadn’t fallen asleep.

“Well happy birthday to myself. None of you bothered. None of you care. I don’t care either. Not one of you deserve me in your life, my success will be my own.”

As I sit dumbfounded, my mother comes out of the kitchen starting to sing Happy Birthday. I’m in shock, I’m looking around as they all sing. My eyes lock in terror at the old man from the bar leaning against the door frame of the kitchen, toothlessly grinning as my mother sets my plate before me.

A hefty slice of chocolate cake with a lit candle stuck into it alongside a plastic fork, sitting atop a small paper plate. Delectable… moist and creamy… bitterness in the frosting… rich… decadent… SCREAMING…