This is a story about a town, A town where everyone is born with their death date on their arm. The mark is of a clock constantly changing, counting down until it reaches 0. I've seen it happen before, my grandfather of 97 died of liver cancer. Resting in his old red leather chair, his arm read 00:00:00:00:00:05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00. And just like that, he was gone. Any and everyone here has one, a death date. Some people have long lives, like my grandfather, while others, like George, my brother, have short ones. George will only live to be 45 years old, the youngest death date to be recorded here. Unbeknownst to the people of this town is the knowledge that I, little Lisa Jones, am going to die.
Tomorrow.
YOU ARE READING
The Brixton Sentence
RandomLisa Jones, my birth name, and hopefully my death name. I doubt it though. Death was always certain for me. Like something lurking in that back corner of my mind. Some insane date far away. Some date to get all my goals accomplished by. Sadly, My da...
