I remember the day he was escorted through the door vividly. His attire was completely black and his hands were covered with gloves. His wrists had been handcuffed and connected to the rope chain around his waist. He kept his gaze down cast the whole time he had been in the room, though not out of self-consciousness from how terribly burned his face had been, but rather out of shame from having failed.
He said nothing at all, and remained silent until the fifth or sixth session, and it was as the two guards were taking him out of the room that he said it.
"You will die on the twelfth of November, in the year 2013, in the fortieth second of the third minute of the twelfth hour, Nannie Haliburton."
And then he was taken through the door.
My thoughts were possibly what they shouldn't have been, being nothing more than a simple disappointment in having to die on my thirty-second birthday. That'll suckā¦
After that, I was asked by my employer if I wanted to back out what the Californian Mayor had asked me to do (I was asked to more or less give the okay to let him plead to insanity and be set free from jail). Maybe someone with a greater amount of common-sense would have in the given situation, I responded with contradiction. I asked for him to come everyday of the week if possible.
I'm fairly sure that pissed him off somewhat.
It wasn't until half-way through the first week of the new scheduling that he spoke again. However, only to get me to "shut the hell up."
Two years have passed since then and now Beyond Birthday is dead. Under those conditions, it is customary to give up his file, but before doing so I would like to make something of a document of his childhood. I know he would have wanted me to do so, he only said so every other day.
