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Most of us are born with the time and place of our death on our wrist. Some of us aren’t, and instead are given the choice of how we die when we turn twenty-five. The latter is very rare, only two percent of the population is given the choice. Those are the lucky ones. I am a lucky one.
When I was born on October 5th, my parents cried. They were so relieved to see that I had free will. Since then, they spent all the time possible preparing. They researched the hardest ways to die, the least painful, the ones that would allow me to die old, happy, and peacefully. It consumed them, but they were content with spending most of their time finding out how to give their daughter a full life.
I didn’t care. Getting to choose how I die granted me to be free of worry for twenty five years. I knew I couldn't die, I was basically immortal and I had bigger things to worry about. So I enjoyed my life as best as I could, never being afraid of anything. I’d go skydiving, bungee jumping, anything that could potentially risk my life. I was unstoppable.
But one day, I stopped. In my sophomore year of high school, I met a girl. She was so sweet and bright-eyed, lighting up the world wherever she went. She was one of the unlucky ones. Luckier than some, but still quite unlucky. On her wrist sat a date, far too soon for anyone to be content with. She was to die at the ripe old age of twenty five at 5:36 pm on October 8th. Ironic how my fate is decided merely days before, but her string of fate gets cut. Lucky for her, right under that dreadful date was a warm word that softened the blow of a youthful death. Home.
We became best friends. A girl doomed to die young and a girl with timeless freedom. She soon became a warm presence in my life, loving and loyal, a safe place to go back to. Her beauty and her kindness drew me closer until I fell in love. I spent days, weeks, months, years pining after a girl who would soon be gone. A girl that brought happiness into my life. A girl who I began to call my home. In turn, she pined after me. She didn’t want me to ache, but I knew it was too late. No matter what happened between us, the loss of her presence would devastate me. So I asked her to ignore whatever fate was in store for us and just consider a date with me. The stars were shining on me that day, because she said yes and one date turned to two turned to many. A girl doomed to depart early and a girl destined to depart freely. Together.
The rest of her years were spent with each other as our home. Graduating high school, being on our own, college, early adulthood. We did it all together. While the dark date grew closer, we were happy. We didn’t care if our time would be cut short, we were going to spend our time together. One night, she came home to find me waiting. Candles illuminated the room, adding an additional twinkle in her eyes. She was beautiful and I fell in love with her all over again. I took her hands in mine and voiced my thoughts out loud, voiced the feelings she already knew, voiced the love in my heart for her. I knelt, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth, tears forming in the corners of her beautiful eyes. I loved her and she loved me, and although our time was short, it was ours. I loved her and she loved me, so I asked her to be mine forever and to take me for just as long. Crying, she accepted, and we spent the night dreaming out loud. Dreaming of a day in white, sweet and tender, proclaiming our love to the world, to the law. And soon enough, the day came. Standing under an arch of flowers, I watched her walk towards me like an ethereal angel. She was mine and I was hers, and we had the rings to prove it.
Blissful days had come and gone, the dreadful date looming closer. Though we loved and were happy with our time, we couldn’t blow away the cloud that covered our sun. She would miss me and I’d miss her, our love eternal yet short lived. The coming months were spent together, crying almost endlessly and feverishly enjoying our vanishing time. My birthday was growing closer, but I had not decided on my fate. Caught up in living and thinking about her death date, I hadn’t paid a single thought to it. I ignored the calls of my parents in the days leading up, ignored the early birthday wishes, ignored the well-intentioned advice. I didn't care about myself. I was in mourning before I even lost her. She occupied my world, my heart, my mind. It was soon the day before my birthday and I still had nothing but her. She was all that mattered. I could worry about myself after. I couldn’t sleep that night, occupied with worry and grief. I turned to the clock to see that it read 11:58. Staring at it, I waited for it to turn to midnight, signaling the start of my birthday. Soon enough, it came, and something, what I could only assume was a heavenly force, placed a thought in my head. It was time to decide. I turned to look at her. She was sleeping so peacefully, her beautiful face so serene. I glanced at her wrist, the word under the date sticking in my mind. I closed my eyes and thought of my decision. I called my parents and said only two words. “I’m sorry.”
I woke up and it was still my birthday. She asked me what I decided and I told her I decided on home. We cried for a bit, but we cheered up, not letting our fate get in the way of happiness. We spent the day having as much fun as possible. We laughed and we loved and we lived. Days soon passed and that mournful day was upon us. We watched our favorite movie, ate our favorite food, and just stayed together. It was October 8th and we laid in bed wrapped in each other. She fell asleep in my arms and I soon joined her in slumber, the steady rhythm of our breaths intertwined. A few minutes passed and the sound of our breaths ceased. Together in each other’s arms, a girl doomed to die young and a girl with timeless freedom. Home.