Black Scars: A Short Story

A cold burst of water explodes on my face. I rub it gently with my soft, damp hands. I keep my eyes shut tight whenever my wrist nears my face, even though I try to deny it. I don't want to see what's written there. I lift my eyes to glance at my reflection, avoiding the inky black scars on my arm. I stumble out of the bathroom and down the stairs, tripping over the steep steps. I rush into the kitchen and give my mum a quick goodbye before stepping out the front door into the bustling street. It is full of activity, people running around doing errands, hurrying to work and none of them glancing at the black tattoo that scars them all. For me, it's all I can focus on. No one seems to worry about it except me. I don't know how they do it! An
ominous date looming over your head is not something to ignore. I refuse to look at mine, even though it is dark and blotchy, a sign that my time is coming.
It's hard not to notice the looks I'm getting from friends and enemies alike as I wander the halls at school. I force myself not to think about what this may mean. They know something I don't, but to be honest, I don't want to know either. There are looks of sympathy and sorrow which make me feel sick inside. Throughout the day I am bombarded by hugs which I grudgingly accept. I've never been one for much affection. I guess it's because I have never experienced much. My mother and father never kissed my goodnight or gave me a hug before school, I would just leave. I don't talk much either. People call me introverted, but I just prefer to listen. I try to leave the public as fast as possible so that I can retreat into my quiet shell. When I get home, my Mum is drinking. She doesn't usually, only when something bad is happening. I whisk the bottle away from her which she barely notices and I sit down beside her, comforting her. I refuse to look as she strokes my vivid, black tattoo. I sit there for a while focusing on anything but
that. I finally decide to retreat to my room but not before my Mum holds me close, caressing me and stroking my hair. I am so surprised that I don't even flinch. She whispers softly into my ear "I love you Makayla. I love you so much." She hasn't told me this for as long as I can remember. The last time she held me was when I was a baby and couldn't walk. I feel so little again. It's funny how such a small gesture can transport you back in time. I am slightly dazed when I prise myself from her grip and blankly wander back to my bedroom. I finally, reluctantly look quietly down at the printed numbers on my wrist.
They are so smudged that I can barely read them. I can only just make out 24-08-20. The final two digits are so entwined that I can't tell them apart. A pit of dread fills my stomach, eating at me from the inside out. I snatch my hand, completely covering today's date. I'm not ready for this. I should be dead. That little number tattooed on my wrist since I was born? That was my death date. Everyone has one, it gets darker the closer it gets to that day. I was one of the unlucky ones. I was doomed to die early. Before I had even finished school. Now comes the hard bit. My death date was yesterday. I lie in bed blinking. I can't hear anything or feel anything. I am numb, and scared. A soft noise fades into my consciousness. It's the sound of someone sobbing. I can hear my mum crying and my dad comforting her. It's heartbreaking and confusing all at the same time. My mum never cries. She never hugs me, cries or expresses her emotions. She was treated harshly and she grew up with many cruel siblings so she learnt to hide her pain, her emotions. I instinctively slip out of bed and tread silently down the stairs to comfort
her.