When everyone is born, a birthmark appears on their arm. Except it is not some random splotch. It isn’t cool like the ones that kind of resemble some weird shape. It’s a date. A date sometime in the future. And what happens when you reach this date? Well, you die.

The countdown begins the second you take your first breath, let out your first cry. Because then it appears. A number, representing a date, representing your death. There’s no escaping, believe me I’ve tried. And I’ve seen people try. The result is always the same.

I die tomorrow. I don’t know when and I don’t know how but it will happen. I am fifteen years old and my life is coming to a lethal halt before I’ve really even lived. Someone or something marked me the second I was born and then the clock started ticking. I am like everyone else. Our fate is sealed and we can do nothing to change it.