When someone is born, there is a mark. It's always there, usually a name or a small splatter. Almost like a tattoo, except innocuous. Painless. Sometimes, they are words. Sometimes, they are symbols, which are rare enough, but always, always, always have an associated meaning. It's usually also said that those with symbol markings are meant for happiness, no matter how sad their past may have been. Their origin is elusive, but according to scientists, they just started showing up one day. No explanation. Creepy, right? (It somehow has a way of pairing aromantics with their soul-mates (like mate as in friend, not mate as in romantic mate). You get a little "A" under your mark, so you know, and it's supposed to alleviate stress on people who don't feel romantic attraction. Which, y'know, makes sense. In a world where everyone has a soulmate and your entire society is built on love and romance, but you don't feel a thing romantically...)
If your soulmate is nearby, it begins to heat up. Not acrimoniously hot, mind you- it's always been a cozy, easygoing warm, like a fireplace in the dead of winter. And at the exact time of your birth on your fifteenth birthday, if you haven't found your soulmate yet, your mark begins to glow. Then, suddenly, you just... know. You are suddenly imparted with the knowledge of the exact location of your soulmate.
This only goes away when you meet them for the first time, or they meet their end. In the case of that happening, your mark erupts in searing pain. It lasts for about half an hour or so, with intermittent, ephemeral windows of time that you can dial authorities and have an ambulance over. When it's over, your previous mark only exists as scar tissue, but doesn't hurt at all anymore. A new mark appears, most likely the symbol of someone else who's lost their soulmate. If you're over 15, congratulations- you're automatically given the knowledge of where they are. And if you're not- it's time to sit down and twiddle your fingers.
Thankfully, my original soulmate is still alive. My name is William Haddock, and today is my fifteenth birthday. I'm a tall and lean boy, about 6'5" (which is great, by the way- how's the weather down there?), and my cheeks, nose, shoulders, upper back, arms, and hands are covered in freckles.
God, I hate my freckles. One time, I was in this foster home, 'cause foster system and stuff, right? I was shuffled from home to home, and I forget most of 'em, but this one... The guy there, he was super-duper religious, and said something about how every freckle on someone was God's curse, and a showing of how much he hated the person. When I started snuffling, he realized what he'd said, turned red as a tomato, and tried to backtrack. He started slipping me lollipops here and there as reparation, but I guess the damage was done. Later, foster parents would try to tell me they were like stars, making it that much more beautiful when my face lit up, like I was shining like the sky. They were probably lying, anyways. I've never liked them (at least, since then). Heck, I've never liked myself.
Anyways. My eyes are a light brown, which make me look more innocent and anywhere from two months to a year younger than I really am, and I have long, curly brown hair that I don't really ever touch except to brush and wash. It's, like, permanently soft, though, and it covers my forehead, but I brush it aside so I can, you know, actually see. Speaking of seeing, my eyes aren't very good, so I wear glasses. The lenses are almost as thick as the frames, which is saying something. It's not a... good something, either. Usually, I'm wearing a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a leafy-green vest with a daisy-yellow bow-tie. My keys are secured to my black jeans via a silvery ring (I'm an opener at the coffee shop around the corner, which is owned by my current foster mom), and I swear, I'm never letting go of my trusty green Converse. I'm negligent in tying them, though, so I get tripped a lot. (What can I say? I never really learned how to tie them.)
