Death Date Tattoo

Ombré Rose

     My number was 5-21-17. Exactly a week after my 18th birthday. I had no idea how I would go, but I knew I was going to die young. I remember the day my mother told me that tattoo on my wrist was the day I would die. That was 10 years ago, and her date has passed. As I grew older, I looked at that number at my wrist more and more. Every night I would stare at it, dreading my end. I often cried at night, especially after I turned 17. I would never fall in love, never marry, never have children or die in my husband's arms. I was doomed to die before I met the world before me.

     I turned 18 on May 17, 2017. It was the best party, but the worst day of my life. I had seven days left. Seven days I would live to the fullest. I skipped school, said goodbye to my friends, and began spending my life savings on enjoying my last days. On the first day, I travelled to Florida, bought a suite, and enjoyed my view of the ocean. On the second day, I went to museums to appreciate art and history that I'd never seen being made. On the third day, I went skydiving and waterskiing. On the fourth day, I went to every amusement park within 100 miles of my suite, and the finest restaurant in Florida. On the fifth day, I took a plane to London, to buy a hotel room in the Marriott. I went to a classic coffee cafe on the morning of the sixth day, tired with jet lag, and met a charming man. We spent the day together, learning of each other's lives and observing our death dates; and we were to die on the same day. Slightly off-putting, but also romantic in its own dark, depressing way. We stayed together in my hotel room, and I fell in love that night. We went swimming in the pool even though it was freezing, and we eventually fell asleep in one another's arms, smiling. Many would say it was foolish to do what we did that night with someone we had just met, and I can understand why. But if I was to die the next day, I would die knowing what love felt like. We spent the seventh day together, walking along the beach. We shared a champagne, and went to the hotel room at dusk. It was ten when we fell asleep, and I fell asleep happy. This was the best way to go.

     I woke up the next morning, refreshed and rejuvenated. I blinked at the sun shining through the window and stretched, smiling. I rolled over to say hello to my love, but when I saw his pale, cold face, his unmoving chest, his dull hair, I froze in terror. This wasn't right. I was supposed to be dead too. I shrieked and fell from the bed , tears streaming down my face. I cried for hours, screaming for him to wake up, but he never responded. I got dressed and fled the Marriott, crying the whole time. I was devastated. That tattoo meant nothing. Not to me. I took a taxi to the beach and reached the spot we had shared champagne, collapsing into the sand. As the day wore on, the sun sinking into the sky, I felt increasingly more sleepy. My lungs felt tired and my heart felt heavy. My whole body grew weak. I looked up into the sky, peaceful, waiting. Finally, my time had come. I saw a figure coming towards my, big and hulking the closer it grew. As it got closer, I realized it was a crashing plane, and tried to get up, but my legs had already shut down. I watched the plane hit the ground, then everything was go-