Remember Me For Centuries

When a baby is born, a silver band is placed onto its wrist with a number inscribed on the inside. A member of the opposite sex also born that day is given a band with the same number. It is a system to insure the survival of the human race. On their eighteenth birthday, the bands are snapped and plugged into a computer system which reveals the database involving their soul mates. But what if the person who is programmed to be your soul mate isn't who you want to spend the rest of your life with? *** This is my entry for the 'Name On Your Wrist' contest--it would mean so much to me if you gave me feedback on this, or even just read it. Criticism would be welcomed with open arms. I hope you enjoy it!!


3. I Only Keep Myself This Sick In The Head Cause I Know How The Words Get You


My eyes twitched. I winced, rolling over in the darkness.
The bed was icy cold but my skin was burning. I coughed—something warm spattered against my clenched fist. Cringing, I heavily lifted my hand.
Even in the dark I could see the black splatters covering my pale skin.
Somehow, I managed to get to the bathroom. The black dots turned a startling red in the yellow light.
I stumbled to the toilet and heaved.
Red. Everywhere.
My arms shook. I couldn’t hold myself up; my limbs turned limp and I thumped down onto my knees. Wheezing, I pressed my cheek to the rim of the toilet bowl. Something inside my head hissed, that’s so unhygienic, Caleb, but I didn’t care. I was past the point of caring.
The pain in my stomach fought the agony in my head. Everything blurred, focused, and then blurred again.
I’m dying.
Okay, even in the heat of the moment I knew I was being dramatic but the pain was unbelievable. My skin burned as it rolled over my bones.
My face pressed to the coolness of the toilet, I weakly stared at my reflection in the large bathroom mirror. Mouth stained red, chin smeared crimson. It was like something from a horror movie.
“Caleb, what are you—oh my god.”
“Aimee,” I whined. “Go away.”
Arms wrenched me up. My head lolled back like a rag dolls.
My sister’s face glowered at me upside down. Her lips twisted, she snorted, “Jesus, Caleb, you really can’t handle hangovers.”
“I wasn’t—“ I wanted to tell her I wasn’t drinking but was cut off by another rush of blood leaving my throat.
Behind me, Aimee laughed, shoving my head down playfully. She leaned against the sink as I groaned, my forehead rolling against the bowl. The cold helped my headache.
“So what’s this about then? Ate something dodgy? Smoked something bad?”
I flipped the finger at her. Her laugh sounded again.
“Right,” she chuckled.
There was a knock at the door.
“Why are there more people?” I whimpered.
My mother walked in, gently touching Aimee’s arm.
“He’s sick,” my sister said, shrugging. “I dunno why. It’s mostly blood.”
Even though I was half in, half out of consciousness, I still heard my mother make a wheezing, gasping sound.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “It’s starting.”

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