Buried Alive On My Birthday

On the twentieth anniversary of the day the five of us met—which also happened to be my birthday—they told me they had planned a surprise.

My brother, Simon, tied a silk blindfold over my eyes. Seth, who had lived next door to me since we were six, took my hand and guided me through the double doors of the private banquet hall.

When the blindfold came off, the room was blindingly bright, except for the center stage.

There, resting on an easel draped in black crepe, was a framed black-and-white portrait of me.

My funeral portrait.

To the left and right stood massive wreaths of white lilies and chrysanthemums. Above it all, a high-definition monitor looped a montage under the banner: "In Loving Memory: The Short, Exhausting Life of Willa Harlan."

Sadie stood near the front in a chic black cocktail dress, her forehead pressed against my fiancé Patrick’s shoulder as she shook with laughter.

"Welcome to Willa’s memorial service!" she cried, clapping her hands.

Simon stepped up to a podium, tapping the microphone with an exaggerated, solemn frown. He cleared his throat and unrolled a sheet of paper.

"She was stubborn," Simon read, his voice deadpan. "She held grudges like state secrets. She kept score on everything. Honestly, guys, if she were actually gone, think of how much lighter the rest of our lives would be."

A ripple of laughter tore through the room. Friends, acquaintances, people I hadn't seen in years—all of them laughing at the punchline of my life.

Seth stepped forward and shoved a crisp novelty funeral bill into my palm. "Don't look so sour, Willa. We just wanted to see if your own obituary would finally make you cry."

Patrick didn't even look up at me. He was tapping away on his phone, transferring money to Sadie. "Sixty seconds," he muttered with an amused smirk. "No tears. You win the bet, Sadie."

I stood there, looking at that photograph.

It had been taken five years ago.

That was the year I threw myself in front of an out-of-control delivery van to shov