In a country of supposed peace, happiness, and security, there are approximately 5,564 hospitals.
Nearly all of those said hospitals assist pregnant women with labor and giving birth. But we aren't going to focus on those five thousand-some hospitals.
We're just going to focus on one in Arizona; the Banner-University Medical Center of Phoenix. There are almost 450 doctors that work there. Almost a hundred and fifty are having lunch right now and the rest are working. One is helping an elderly lady to her car, marveling at the date on the lady's arm—but we'll get to that later.
There are many hallways in the twisting maze of a hospital, all packed to the brim with patients, concerned familial members, and workers. Surprisingly, the only sounds in the hallway are murmurs in low tones. There are no tears, no yelling. The doctors can't alter fate. Death is as commonplace now as taking a breath. Unless the date on the patient's arm is today's date or within a week of today, not much worry will be given to those patients.
After the fourth World War, America decided they'd be better off without a president—one main leader who can dictate what all other people do. Because, of course, that's what the president's power had turned into—a kingship, a dictatorship, but without the appropriate title. Once-America, Past-America, Was-America, is now called Itex. The governing body is a Council—the Council of 15—of, of course, 15 of the most brilliant and ruthless scientists of their time. The Council of 15's names are not and never will be disclosed, for security reasons, of course. In case enemies of Itex might attack them. The real reason is that they are worried of what their citizens might do to them if they ever find out what really happens to those whom disappear on their day, on what happens to those 'miscarried' babies, about what happens behind closed doors. They might be the janitor cleaning up that woman's spilled food or Mrs. Janet, the nice lady who gives the kids cookies after school.
Itex was built upon treachery, a few elders enjoy saying, and upon treachery it will fall.
Those elders are the few with any spots of color left in their souls, a single splotch called hope. Most everyone inbetween the children of this era and the children of two eras before them—those few elders still alive—have only grey within their souls, only the sole purpose the Council of 15 calls 'life'. Real life is a mix of all colors, if experiences and emotions could be colors that make splotches against the soul if the soul was a painting, and only the ones who want to do something can't and the ones who could do something won't.
Two adults, two inbetweens, are inside a room with a plain white door only adorned with the numbers '3726' in fake gold nail-on numbers. The '6' has lost one nail over the years and hangs slightly crooked but apart from that it is practically flawless—the hallway, the door, the room. Except, of course, for the two little girls sitting with their backs to the wall in the hallway, listening silently to the cries of the woman inside 3726.
The two girls are eight and four years old. The eight year-old listens in silence to her mother's cries, her head bowed as if praying—but she doesn't know what praying is. There is no one God with a capital G in Itex. The Council of 15 are gods.
The two girls couldn't look more different, except for their eyes. The older sibling has stick-straight dirty blonde hair, a freckled pointy nose, and light brown eyes. The younger sister has rich chocolate brown curls, a roundy nose, and dark brown, almost black round eyes. The older girl has long, gangly limbs that could be and will be razor-sharp with muscles while the younger girl's figure already hints at curves to come.
The younger girl, whose name is Ella, shifts. Her bottom is growing numb from sitting for so long on the hard tile floor. She never has had to sit still for this long before! On the other hand, since her older sister, Max, had sat down, she hadn't twitched once. Not even her hair stirred. It was as if she had been frozen in time, a masterpiece of sorts, titled 'Worry in the Hospital' since she is worrying at the hospital. Why would the title be anything creative when creativity is banned?
Ella fidgets with the linen wrapped around her wrist. Unseen by her, Max's eyes flit to the small movements. She hates that cloth.
One day, at the beginning of Itex, the Council of 15 made an amazing discovery—they found out how to alter someone's DNA just so that the day they died would be tattooed on the inside of said person's wrist.
The only catch is that said person is unable to see the date. Everyone else can, but the owner of the wrist and date cannot.
"Certainty," the Council had preached, "will make way for peace."
The certainty of everyone except for yourself knowing when you'll die, apparently, had been what they'd meant.
All just a bunch of bullshit, Max snarls to herself. Propaganda. Bullshit.
Of course, she doesn't really know what that means. She's only eight years old, after all. That's only what she's heard her mother murmur late at night when she was supposed to be asleep.
Max stiffens almost infinitesimally as there is complete silence; not even Ella lets out a breath.
Then the harsh whining of a newborn baby fills the air and the statue relaxes.
Ella bounds onto her feet and practically crashes into the door before swinging it open seconds before impact.
"Meet Ari," Jeb announces proudly to his two young girls as they enter. "Your baby brother."
Max gazes at the little boy's wrist before Valencia can twitch it away. Pretending like she hadn't seen the date, she lets her eyes slide over the rest of the boy. He's pink, loud, and small.
He's gonna die before he's eight years old.