The Invalid

Today is her assigned day of death.

THE INVALID

In the soft light of morning, my eyes slowly drift open, and it's the first thought that immediately fills my mind.

Today is the day I die.

A weight settles in my chest; a bitter mix of fear and resignation.

Today is the day I will die.

Even after knowing and dreading this day for the past twenty-three years, I still feel somewhat unprepared for its arrival.

I glance at the tattoo on my right wrist.

I’ve had it since I was born; it's a boldly printed text of today’s date, constantly reminding me of my inevitable end.

I soberly stare at the ceiling above my head, the swirling patterns fascinating me as if I haven't seen them before.

My room is quiet, and the only sound that fills the space is from the road across my apartment.

There’s an unusual sensation in the air this morning, almost as if the walls understand the occasion.

It’s not rare for people to be imprinted to die at a young age, and I chose to accept my fate a long time ago. One of my classmates in middle school, Clara, died when she was fourteen.

No one knows how the dates are determined. Nobody knows why we’re even given dates. However, in today's society, imprinting is a law—a 'necessary evil', as the Government likes to say.

So here I am, lying on my bed, in my oversized pyjamas, on the day I'm going to die. No friends or family to comfort me before and mourn me after.

It doesn't bother me, honestly. It’s just... pathetic.

A week ago, I abruptly quit my job at the diner where I served. It was the only form of socialisation I had for years, and even though I didn't specify my reason for leaving, I think they already knew.

People always seem to know.

I get out of bed, each step echoing through my half-empty apartment. I glance at the boxes piled around the room containing my clothes, shoes, and other belongings.

I figured I won’t need any of that stuff when I’m buried six feet under somewhere, so I plan to drop them off at homeless shelters across the city.

Call it my final act of kindness.

I still remember the look on the old clerk's face last night when I donated all of my books to the local library. Two boxes of classic and contemporary literature. She was genuinely grateful.

So, as much as it hurt to part with them, her reaction made it worthwhile.

Steadily, I make my way into the bathroom, and I stare at the mirror. For someone who could die any moment from now, I look really good.

My hair is a bit dishevelled, and my eyes are puffy from all the crying I did last night, but beyond that, I look just fine.

I catch a glimpse of my wrist in the mirror, and my fingers unconsciously brush the tattoo again. A shiver makes its way down my spine.

How will it happen? Would it be a random accident? Maybe I get hit by a bus or struck by lightning. There are countless possibilities for death, and I wonder if I've been tethered to one since the day I was born.

I think I’m good with any death, as long as I don’t drown.

Anything but drowning.

Suddenly, I have second thoughts about taking a shower. But I have quite a few places to visit today, so I reluctantly take a quick one. I don't drown, thankfully.

I put on the last fresh clothes I have, and I head to the kitchen to eat what could well be my final meal. A basic bowl of cereal.

I eat slowly and deliberately, uninterested in choking to death, and I halfheartedly scroll through my phone.

The world outside me continues its own rhythm, indifferent to my countdown.

When I finish eating, I start to move the boxes to my car, going back and forth a few times.

As I climb down the stairs on my final trip, I trip and fall forward.

My heart seizes. This is it.

Somehow I manage to grab hold of the railing for support and I regain my footing. I slump down to the ground and try to steady my breath.

My eyes are teary, and I let out a slight laugh. I'm more relieved than I should be. I think my life just flashed before my eyes.

After inhaling a deep breath, I pack the spilt items back into the box and slowly trudge to my car. My baby is a worn, rusted, beat-up pickup truck that would soon become an offering to the scrapyard.

As the day passes, I focus all my energy on the tasks I had planned, ignoring the rather huge weight hanging over my head. I drop my donations at different shelters, and I help out a bit in the ones I can. To my surprise, I enjoy my final day a lot.

By the time I am done, the sun is casting a warm glow on the city as it begins to set.

I slowly drive my car to the scrapyard, where I offer it to the manager free of charge. He gives me a "you crazy or something?" look and offers to pay half the usual asking price.

I shake my head and try to flash him my best smile.

He studies me for a moment, then he nods in understanding. Like I said, people always know. When he stretches his hand to collect the key from me, I can't resist casting a glance at his tattoo.

He still has about twenty-eight years left to live.

Envy swims furiously through me.

As I walk out of the yard and back into the street, it's properly dark. I'm pacing down the sidewalk when it strikes me.

For some reason, I’m still alive.

Slight excitement flows through my veins, and I can’t fight the smile that creeps across my face.

Is it possible that it was a mistake?

Disappointment immediately quenches my excitement. It’s not possible. There’s never been a mistake with imprints.

The Government knows the day we die from the moment we are born, and it is printed on our wrists as a constant reminder.

It can’t be escaped.

Unless I’m… I shake my head furiously to kill the thought.

I’m not; I can’t be.

I decide to walk back to my apartment. I honestly didn't think I'd see the end of today, so I have no idea what to do next. Many people die in their sleep on imprinted days, while some don't even wake up that morning.

Honestly, I’ve always considered it to be very boring. You could die a thousand other ways, and in your sleep is how you choose to go? Boring.

I always wanted an adventurous death, but sadly, I too will be dying in my sleep tonight.

My footsteps sound hollow on the pavement as I turn onto another street, and I can now see my apartment in the distance. Luckily for me, I didn't submit my spare key in the morning.

As I cross the empty road to my apartment's street, darkness suddenly envelops me, and I can no longer see or breathe.

I feel a rough pressure on my face, and my legs drag across the ground as I am pulled away from the sidewalk.

I trash and fight and try to escape, but I can’t. The grip around me is firm and unflinching.

So, this is it, Ella? I think to myself bitterly.

Death by mugging in an empty alley.Very adventurous.

I continue my struggle to break free from the deathly grip on my face. Dying is no longer some distant concept; it’s a chilling reality that's currently choking and threatening to end me.

Terror overrides all the resignation in my senses.

Gathering all my strength, I throw my head back at the attacker. I must get their nose because they groan and the grip on me loosens.

Immediately, I break into a desperate sprint in the opposite direction.

Behind me, I hear loud curses,followed by rapid footsteps. I glance back to see some huge guy chasing me.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I increase my pace, and I think I’m getting away, but he’s too fast, and he catches me. He grabs my left arm, drags it back, and slams me into a wall.

I groan as pain spreads through my entire upper body, and I fall to the ground. When I turn to look at the attacker, my panic turns into a chilling fear.

He's wearing a black hoodie and a face cap, and there's this vicious, almost unnatural look in his eyes as he looks down at me. I gulp in fear and try to move back from him, but there’s nowhere for me to run to.

He pulls out a knife, and tears begin to pour from my eyes. I want to scream and shout and beg for my life, but I'm paralysed in fear, and the sounds don't form in my mouth.

I shut my eyes tight and hope it ends quickly.

There's a sharp scream and a body thuds to the ground, but my mouth is closed, and I am already on the floor.

I open my eyes, and the huge guy is on the ground, clutching his abdomen in pain. Standing above him is another man, panting and angry. 

His eyes shift to mine, and the anger dissolves into concern.

“Hey,” he says, walking over to me. “Are you okay?”

I am too stunned to speak or move, but I manage to nod my head at him. He stretches his hand and lifts me to my feet with my right hand.

I wince in mild pain, and he's about to say something when he notices my tattoo.

His eyes dart to mine, then to my attacker, and his realisation settles in.

“Oh no,” he mutters. His facial expression is desperate fear. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

He gives me one last look of remorse, then he runs off.

My first instinct is to thank him, but the man who tried to kill me begins to stir on the ground again, so I run.

My whole body trembles as I push myself back towards my apartment.

There’s a constant sharp pain in my left arm, and I think it's sprained.

I feel dizzy.

I desperately want to stop for a moment, just to breathe. But I can’t. He could be behind me.

My apartment comes into view again, and adrenaline courses through my veins.

I push open the doors, and I clutch the railing, dragging myself upwards.

My heart is pounding against my ribcage, and my fingers shake slightly, but I manage to open the door.

I slam it close behind me and lock the bolt in place.

Relief fills me again, and I slump to the ground. Tears run down both my cheeks.

For years, they taught us how to live every day in preparation for our deaths. They tell us to make peace with it and live the best life we can. But they never tell us how scary death is in the final moments.

This morning I thought I was ready to die, but I'm not.

The stark reality of my situation hits me like a tonne of bricks.

Suddenly, I'm hyperventilating.

I should be dead. I was about to die, but that man saved me. He saved me from dying. That’s why he ran. He knows what he did.

I want to scream. I'm feeling too many conflicting emotions at the same time, and the worst of them is fear.

I shouldn’t be alive; I can’t live beyond my assigned day.

I can’t become one of them.

Fresh tears flow down my face, and my thoughts fade into a blur. I stare at the date on my wrist again, hoping it has somehow changed.

But it hasn't.

The imprint is never a mistake.

I drag myself to my bed, and I collapse on it. The adrenaline has worn off, and I am exhausted beyond belief.

My left arm is definitely sprained, and it hurts like hell.

I look at the clock on my phone: 8:36pm.

It’s not midnight yet, which means the day isn’t over.

Maybe the hooded man wasn’t meant to kill me after all.

I will go to sleep tonight and never wake up again. Then everything would be fine.

I close my eyes tightly and try to sleep, ignoring the pain and unease in my chest.

I beg anything and anyone that I don’t wake up in the morning.

But I do.

My eyes open to the sunlight, and my chest aches even more than it did yesterday.

The world outside is still the same, but my place within it has shifted.

I escaped my death and defied fate, but it came at a price. An extreme price.

I am now an Invalid.

An outcast in society. An enemy of the Government. An algorithmic anomaly.

They will find me and conduct scary experiments on me. Everyone has heard the stories. The horrors of what those who escape their imprinted days go through.

The ones that aren’t found out immediately live their lives on the run, but they always get caught.

When they are, they always wish they died when they should’ve.

Tears well up in my eyes again, and I refuse to move an inch.

I’m still dreaming. I’m not awake yet.

I close my eyes tight again, waiting for death.

But it never comes.

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Fun Fact - I originally wrote and published this story last year on my Medium. Decided to rewrite it and I’m more impressed with this version.

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