Happy Birthday

Forty years ago, Sean Tucker insisted on being born into a family that did not want him -- not his mother, who had to carry his unwieldy and squirming body for nine months, not his father who saw him as just another mouth to feed, not his teenage brother who found it all so embarrassing, and certainly not his ten year old sister who did not want to give up the rights and title of the baby of the family.

Fate decided to punish Sean for his audacity and tenacity.  It began with his very first birthday, the day that he was born.  There were complications, a placental abruption, and his mother died during child birth.

It's not that he had an unhappy childhood.  He didn't.  His family eventually grew to love and accept him, as families in these circumstances do.  His father forgave him because he had his mother's eyes, and having the boy around was almost like not having to let her go.  His teenage brother discovered that cute little toddlers were chick magnets.  Even his sister decided he could stick around once she found he was much more entertaining to dress and play with than her dolls.

And yet, every year, on his birthday, something invariably went wrong.  Sometimes it was subtle, like his birthday falling on moving day, or the time there was a printing error on the invitations and he spent his party alone.  Sometimes it was quite violent, like the year he fell off his bicycle and broke his arm, or the day his divorce papers arrived to be signed.  One year, he received the announcement that his favorite teacher, Mrs. Simms, had died.  He blamed himself for her death, just as he blamed himself for his mother's.

And now his 40th birthday was upon him.  There was such significance surrounding the number forty.  Half his life lived; half his life still ahead of him. 

He expected fate to be particularly cruel that day, so he had taken precautions.  He informed his ex-wife that he couldn't take the girls that weekend, even though it meant a month would pass before he'd be with them again.  He called in to work sick, the first time he had missed since joining the firm.  He had made excuses to all his friends and his girlfriend, insisting he was too busy to join them tonight.  Safe in the cocoon of his bachelor pad apartment, he faced his birthday with confidence.

The day passed slowly.  He finished the crossword puzzle in the paper.  He worked out on the elliptical for a good hour.  He read through two magazines.  He cleaned out his closet and caught up on his e-mail.  He had leftovers for lunch and ordered pizza for dinner.  Strident voices from the 24-hour news channel buzzing in the background were the only company he kept all day.  Yet, as the minutes and then hours ticked by without incidence, he congratulated himself on finally outsmarting fate and the curse of the birthdays.

He decided to call it an early night.  When was the last time he was in bed by nine o'clock?  That in itself was a luxury.  A birthday gift to me, he told himself.  He brushed his teeth, climbed into bed, and read a book for half an hour.  Then he turned off the light and waited for sleep to come.  As the darkness settled around him, the loneliness of the day crept into his heart, black, acrid, suffocating, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly to fight back tears.

Ah, yes, fate had been cruelest of all this year.

*****

Today's prompt is: Write about a man with an impossibly bad streak of luck on his birthdays, who, as his 40th birthday approaches, is scared of what might happen.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.