Countdown

     Seven days.

     I've heard about it all my life. And no, it's not the horror movie type of seven days, where a person that puberty did a disservice to is whispering into a cell phone; it's the type that is literally a part of me. It's a tattoo on my arm -- although tattoo is an unfitting term considering I've always had it, so birthmark would be more appropriate.

I have no idea why seven days is so vital to me: no idea what it means or why it's marked on my skin. I've obviously lived a lot more than seven days. The people who have questioned its existence have hypothesized that it's somehow my fate -- my destiny -- but how does that make sense? It became a part of me, and I rarely took notice of it.

That is, until one day the word seven had changed to...

Six.

I woke up with a shiver, which meant only one thing: it was earlier than five in the morning. My mom turned our heating system to turn back on at five, and because my mom and I normally sleep deeply at night, we don't really notice the cold. But I felt it right now.

Great, I thought to myself.

I sat up in my bed, looking at my alarm clock that had yet to go off: it was four in the morning. There was no way that I could go back to sleep now. For some reason, I've felt uneasy these last few days and that meant I'm nowhere close to the amount of sleep that doctors want for a 17 year old. I scratched my mark absentmindedly as I dragged myself into the bathroom.

My mark, my tattoo, my birthmark, my stain on my perfect skin: call it what you want. It has said "Seven Days" all of my life -- my mom said it mysteriously appeared on my first birthday. It's written in black, styled like calligraphy where the thickness of the lines change with its elegant curves, the capitalized S and D are a bigger size than the rest of it that adds more drama to the cursive, and is in the middle of my inner forearm on my right side, taking up half of the space.

While its existence still bothered me, I didn't have a reason to give myself a headache by thinking about it.

I mindlessly French-braided my shiny, long black hair -- the straightness of my hair and my habit of braiding my hair back gave me the ability to style it with ease at any time. After I got ready for school, I decided to read Edgar Allen Poe until my mom woke up. I scratched at my mark again until I scoffed and looked down at it, intent on finding out why it was slightly burning.

It didn't say Seven Days anymore.

It said Six Days.

Six.

Six.

No fucking way.

I'm not sure how long I sat staring at the word Six, but it was long enough that my eyes started to feel dry and my vision got distorted. I jerked up and shone my lamp on my arm, making 100% sure that I was right. And I was. The Six looked a little red around the area that it was written; but it was there alright, as definite as the Seven once was.

Now I really wanted to know what the hell is going on.

"Good morning, sunshine!" my mom said, cheery in the morning like only a morning person could be. "I see that you're ready for school!" I had stared at my mark for a whole hour. I gave her a small smile and she smiled back as she walked out of my room.

I think I'm in shock. Come on, Freya, you're better than that, I berated myself. I decided to talk to my best friend, Aurelie, during first period before I told my mom about my mark.