I look down at my wrist. 48 seconds. 48 seconds until my heart stops. 48 seconds until I take my last breath. 48 seconds until I die. 48 agonizingly slow seconds.
I don’t want to die. I admit that. But some small part of me, a sliver of my soul, some insane piece of me... Doesn’t want to live. There’s only so much excitement you can look forward to when your death clock is set on your seventeenth birthday.
My “friends” gather around me, sorrow and pity in their eyes. Pity. I know that’s the only reason they’re here. Because poor little Mark had a pathetic lifespan. Whatever. I don’t need their pity. What good will that do me? The damage had been done.
32 seconds. 32 seconds until I’m gone. The doctor comes in holding a tray. There’s only two things on it: a cup of water and a syringe. I take the glass with my cold hands and take a sip while the doctor picks up the syringe which contains my death sentence.
20 seconds. It’s a sad way to go, I admit. I never expected cancer to be the cause of my death. I expected it to be a car crash, or a bank robbery, something exciting. Not a disease that supposedly didn’t exist anymore.
10 seconds. My father is crying. My mother has a blank look on her face, her eyes empty of emotion. I do not blame her. She’s losing her only son, her baby. I wish I could comfort her. But there’s no time.
5 seconds. Time, time, time. The one thing I want, the one thing life cannot provide for me. The doctor puts the needle in my skin. It pierces my skin, and it hurts. He injects the serum into my body, and I already feel it working it’s way into my system.
2 seconds left. I give my mom a sad smile, and then I wince. My body is twitching, and I can’t control it. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t see. I faintly hear my mother scream, my father calling my name.
I’m tired. So tired. My eyes close, my body goes limp. And I am gone.