I often write to prompts offered on writing.com. Some time ago, a different type appeared, and I sat on it. Being a “ruminator”, some prompts take a while to mature. This was one such story.

At birth, everyone has the date they will die tattooed on their arm.
You were supposed to die yesterday.

~~~

I woke to the sound of the soft hum of the clock on the nightstand, a sound I’d grown used to over the years. It had always been a constant in my life—tick-tock, tick-tock. But this morning, it felt different. The hum sounded louder, more urgent. More like a countdown.

I glanced at the digital display on the clock. It was 7:15 AM, and I was still alive.

I rolled over, my eyes darting to the scar marring the inside of my left arm. The tattoo was there, bold and precise as always—the date of my death. It had been there since the day I was born, like a curse or a gift, depending on who you asked. The date was always right, every time, for every person. It had never been wrong: until yesterday.

Yesterday, I was supposed to die. At least, that’s what the date told me. The ink mark had been there from the moment I came into the world. A birth date and a death date, side by side. I should have died on July 26th, 2025.

Yet, here I was.

I sat up, my chest tight. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe I’d simply misread the tattoo, or maybe the universe had screwed with me. But no, I knew better. It was never wrong.

Pulling on a sweatshirt, I stepped into the bathroom and stared in the mirror reflecting my pale face. My gaze lingered on the tattoo for a moment longer than intended. The date was as sharp as ever, the numbers dark against my pale skin. The ink didn’t lie.

“Maybe I’m not supposed to die,” I whispered to the reflection, my voice barely audible.

Even as I spoke, I knew it wasn’t true.

I stepped back into the bedroom, pacing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so restless. Yesterday, I had gone about my day, thinking I would be gone by nightfall. The day passed with an undercurrent of finality, the thought of death like a shadow following me wherever I went. I called my parents, telling them I loved them. I apologized to old friends for past mistakes.

And yet, nothing had happened.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t stop wondering: What if this was a mistake? What if I was…

The doorbell rang.

I froze.

I hadn’t been expecting anyone. I didn’t have many visitors, especially not at 7:30 in the morning. My heart raced, the calm facade I’d built around myself cracking open.

I hesitated, unsure of whether to answer. But then the doorbell rang again, and something urged me to move. Maybe the answer to my questions was beyond that door.

I opened it.

A woman stood there, her face gaunt and familiar, though I couldn’t place her at first. Wrapped in a heavy coat, though the summer heat was unbearable, she clutched at something small in her hands.

“I—I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, her voice shaky. “But… you don’t know me. I’m… I’m the one you were supposed to die for.”

The words hit me like a slap. “What?”

Her eyes were red, swollen, as though she’d been crying for days. She raised her hand, showing me a tattoo on her own arm. The same thing—numbers. The same date. July 26th, 2025.

“But I didn’t die,” she continued, trembling. “I wasn’t supposed to live either. I didn’t have the date on me. But you…” Her voice faltered, and she looked away. “I need your help. It’s not over. They’re coming for you.”

For a moment, I just stood there, trying to process what she was saying. I was still alive. But she wasn’t supposed to be here either. And now, something was coming—something to catch me off-guard.

I glanced back at my tattoo, the date on my arm. Yesterday.

Expired.

The ticking of the clock was louder than ever now.