Expiration Date

Dear World,                                              7/16/17

Yesterday I discovered the feeling of mortality. 
I, Joanne Brook, was supposed to die yesterday. 
I wish immortality was not as frightening, and 
I wish I could indulge in the long prosperous 
life it would entail. Though it seems fear is my 
weakness at this point. To anyone reading this, 
I am not a witch, in fact, the thought makes me 
cringe. I was simply a victim of fate. I do not
 know the cause, but as it stands, I am dead.
I wonder if my memory will live on? and If 
I may see it. I plan to retreat. To leave humanity
behind, and voyage into the unknown. I am not 
coming back. I am not afraid...


Joanne read over what she wrote. Each swoop of cursive letters seemed wobbly, and uncertain. Her blank stare burnt into the paper. She questioned what her life would become. What she would do. She hasn't told her friends, co-workers, anyone. She has been locked away. 

Where would she go? It's not exactly normal for a dead woman to rent an apartment. She buried her face in her hands. Starting to sob. 

Had fate F-ed up? Why HER?!

Joanne was on the verge of screaming. Silent sobs rang through the empty house. 

Why did everyone meet their proper fate, but not HER?

She didn't fear death; she feared life. Death was a loss of burdens, pain, strife. 

She was pained with the thought of living. Not living like a normal person, she was living like a captive animal in the shadows. 

The letter on the table gained dark spots as tears slammed onto the paper. Parts of the shaky cursive smeared. 

Joanne separated her face from her hands, both having the sticky residue of tears. Her puffy red eyes glared at her digital clock. The bright green numbers were blinding. 4:03 am, it had been four hours. Her whole body trembled. Her throat was hot; it felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of blazing marbles. 

Her chest throbbed. 

Her eyes burned. 

Her hands shook. 




And then she was numb.