I pulled up my sleeve, exposing the small barcode tattoo on my left wrist. It was a stark contrast over my pale skin, and even though it seemed artistic to have a small tattoo on the wrist, I didn’t choose to have it.
All of us at birth are marked with the one tattoo we all have; the small barcode on the wrist. In small letters, is the date of our death.
It as simple as that. We have known the date of our deaths since the day we were born. It wasn’t scary, really, it was a thing implanted into our society so deep that it was just...well, there.
It was more out of practicality than anything else. Since we knew when we died, we could cram our dreams into our small lives and call it a day.
As I stare at the small letters, though, my stomach swirls with doubt. What if our society is wrong? What if not knowing when you die is all part of life?
I look at the small numbers and letters again. My thumb glides over my inked skin.
Wasn’t that yesterday?
Author Notes: april 2023 edit: i definitely stole this writing prompt from some corner of the internet.