[ WP ] Everyone dies on their birthday , but no one knows at which age it will occur .

“ Happy birthday! ” 
 
 The word that followed depended on to who was born to who and when, but Gregory couldn ’ t remember most of them; his memories were eroded by age and medicine. He laid there in bed, eighty-three years young, surrounded by his family in the hospice. Dads and Granddads and Uncles and Great-Uncles poured in onto him. He knew it was his family, just not most of the faces nor voices. 
 
 “ Thank you, ” he whispered quietly to the crowd with the strength he could. He was actually happy to see all of them gathered at once. Gregory had worked hard for them. He had worked his way up from the ranks of the poor; starting as a factory worker, and then a machinist. He had a happy, middle class life: a wife, two kids, a house in the suburbs, and he was generally in good health. 
 
 That was until he was in a car accident, thirty and a half years ago. 
 
 The head-on impact with the tractor trailer broke his body completely, shattering most of his bones, including his spine; but, since it wasn ’ t his birthday, he did not die. Death had a simple rule: you died on your birthday, but you didn ’ t know the year of your death. This one simple fact had two important consequences: first, everyone was extremely paranoid on their birthdays. Schools would not require children to come to class, and employers generally let employees have the day off. Soldiers got sent off the front line during wars past on their birthday, lest something horrible, graphic, and fatal happen. Most sensible people stayed locked away in their homes, not moving out of whatever space they felt safe in. Most wouldn ’ t even drink water that day, due to the fear of choking. 
 
 The second consequence was that you couldn ’ t die unless it was your birthday. Not even through deliberate acts such as suicide or homicide could you die if it wasn ’ t your birthday. Death worked on that one rule, and no one was allowed to cheat it. Massive, fatal injuries were usually enough to cause people to die from their injuries when their birthday came about, but for Gregory there was enough time between the accident and his birthday that he survived it. Gregory became a quadriplegic, but he did not lose his life and ended up living for thirty more years. 
 
 Gregory, and his family, were sure that this year would be the year he would die. His health had started failing since soon after his eighty-second birthday. His health had been in decline. His lungs were almost constantly infected, his kidneys were failing. He spent mst of the last year in a drug induced coma; the nurses having pumped massive amounts of painkillers and sedatives into his system. They knew it was the end, but they also knew he wouldn ’ t die due to an overdose. It wasn ’ t his birthday, after all. Gregory also wanted to die; he resented being dependent on everyone, even to be bathed and fed. He hated especially that he had worked his way up all his life, gained so much, only to end up as a quadriplegic. He hated that his family had to spend a lot of time and money to make him comfortable, when he should be providing for them. Medical expenses had already eaten all of his savings and were digging into the pockets of his family, all to keep him comfortable until his next birthday rolled around. The law prevented doctor assisted suicide, so that too was not an option. So, for every birthday for thirty years, Gregory prayed for death. Before his birthday was a day of fear, to hide away from the world. 
 
 He was relieved now, for once, that his death was coming today. 
 
 Hours passed by seemingly like minutes, what with the rush of his family being there. They said their teary goodbyes, placing their hand on Gregory ’ s head, the only part of his body that felt anything but nothing or, rarely, pain. They conversed for most of the day, and then, slowly and contently, his family slipped out of the hospice room, in small groups linked by immediate family, until none were left, and the minutes turned into hours. Hours that he spent waiting to die, to drift into sleep, never to wake up again. He got excited every time he started to feel groggy, since he knew that death couldn ’ t be too far behind. Any moment now, it would come. He was sure of it, he wanted it, needed it, for death to come and rescue from his prison and pain. Any moment now... 
 
 He screamed at the nurse, coming into the room with a hypodermic syringe and an expression of remorse. He wanted to cry, but not having had any fluids he was too dehydrated to. More medical staff entered. Another nurse, another anesthesiologist. He knew what it meant. It meant another year in the hospice, another year of medicine induced nightmares. He knew they would only come in the day after his birthday. His birthday had past, damning him to another year of living.
