Sometimes Iris wished she knew what her timer was at.
Where there once was an arm with black numbers written neatly on her wrist, now there was only phantom pain. The accident had lost her her arm, leaving her completely dumbfounded at what her number may be. It could be eight minutes. It could be eight years. Heck, for all she knew, it could be eight minutes. Not knowing the future was terrifying.
But, at the same time, it was a relief.
She had no deadline, no death date set in stone. She was completely clueless, and it was a weight she no longer needed to carry on her shoulders. She could just... live.
The history books she’d read when she was little had said that people all used to not have death timers. They lived every day like it was their last, they’d had no limitations of time, and she couldn’t fathom living without knowing when you would die. Now, it was her new reality. She should be scared. She should be terrified. She could drop dead any second now.
Instead, all she felt was excitement and adrenaline. Her future was her choice now, instead of a few numbers inked onto her skin against her will. It was liberating, and it filled her hope. She controlled her own life. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.
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