This whole story is loosely based off of the movie Seven Pounds. I say loosely because I'm going to change certain details about it to better suit the characters. It's possible to enjoy this story even without having seen it - but if you do - you'll ruin the plot for yourself. If you prefer the mystery, I'd suggest not watching it yet so I can spin the tale together for you myself. This first chapter is just a small taste, they'll lengthen out over time.

I own nothing except my interpretations of the characters.

Enjoy! Reviews are strongly encouraged and very welcome, since I'd like to know if there's interest in it thus far.

I've seen you watching

I've seen you drifting away

Seen you falling along

I've seen you disappear

Now the bed's on fire and the ceiling's gone

And your mom and dad still sing the same old song

Don't scare me off now, I'm your only friend

And now I'm free to sink my own damn ship

I cut the bridge down from my family tree

To start a fire in the middle

Now the house is just ash this time, sink or swim

Let the river in

If blood is thicker than water

Then let the river in

We might drift away, but we've got thick skin

According to Wikipedia, the average life expectancy for a male in the United States is 75.35.

The number seemed like a fair chance to anyone, under any circumstance and coming from any background. A little over seventy five was a promise to live one's life to the fullest- to execute their wildest dreams within that time span of 3,913.31 weeks, 27,393.2 days, and 65,7436 hours. One could do the math for minutes and seconds, but that isn't truly the point here.

A person could manage to create a firmly established relationship with their family, grow close to their siblings and learn all they needed to know, (along with some added bullshit for variety) during their childhood years. Their personality, aspirations, and insecurities could be cultivated. And they would forever follow the individual, haunting them through every milestone, each failure.

All of the required suffering could be completed during adolescent years, when one's main goal is to brood and loathe the world, most of all themselves in it. The desire to question things would never be far, doubting every rule and universal truth that had ever been shoved down their throat. Rebellion would be introduced, given a chance to root itself into the individual. An aloof apathy might even form, after so many disappointments – both from others and one's self. Every hormonally driven hardship could be met, anywhere along the lines of drug abuse to family troubles, to failing grades to carrying potential life inside one's abdomen. The possibilities for suffering are endless in these tumultuous, and oftentimes wistful years.

Adulthood would perhaps be the prime of one's life- the beginning at least. High school ending would cue a new outlook, a whole new perspective opened up before one's eyes. With it would come the options of attending university, or perhaps delving straight into a career, if at all possible. Opportunities for a new love life might sprout up, and one might even get a brief taste of love, if they're lucky. Or at the very least, a teasing, fleeting glimpse of it.

The rest of their life would carry on consequentially, depending on how they chose to spend those three segments, depending on the factors that shaped them, and the events that marred them. The next forty to fifty years would come to pass as a direct result of how they lived the first twenty five, roughly.

But Eli Goldsworthy knew he wouldn't live a day over thirty. He had known for a long time.

While others let the venom into their lives by who they associated with, he had been spinning it together all on his own for a long while. Unconsciously, of course. No one else had ever been the master of his destiny. He was solely responsible for each up and down he'd ever faced. Not surprisingly, the downs were more frequent as of late.

But now, he knew it had been coming all along. Every step he'd taken since the age of seventeen had been leading up to this final act, the last scene in the proverbial play of his life, at twenty six and three quarters. Nearly an entire decade was used up, merely leading up to his demise.

To him, it had been time well spent.

The old fashioned rotary phone weighed a million and ten pounds in his trembling hands, the veins already beginning to swell, popping out along his otherwise alabaster skin. He had two, maybe five minutes until his body gave out, finally giving up the fight that could have lasted fifty years longer, had he chose to stay.

26,08.87 weeks.

18,262.1 days.

43,8291 hours.

Instead, it was all reduced to 9,496.3 days. Each one numbered, all leading to the eventual collapse.

And this was the last available day on his calendar, marked with an "x" in the center.

He never assumed dialing three digits could be so difficult. But the task was proving be impossible in the dim glow of the lamp beside him, in a dreary hotel, somewhere in the state of New York. It was about as shady as it could get, but he didn't deserve anything better for his dying day.

For a moment, the instinct to survive, to stand a fighting chance in hell at making it out of the situation kicked in, and he almost regretted it. Almost.

Until he remembered the delicate tendrils framing her face.

And how easily she smiled, even when she was going for treatments.

Her constant grace under fire, the simplicity of her strength. How unyielding it was. Even when she knew that her days were numbered, and not by a personal choice.

Instead he smiled, imagining a strong heart pounding in her chest, instead of the weak one she was born with.

One that beat so tirelessly, relentlessly, that he was almost sick of it himself. One that refused to quit.

"911 emergency." the flat voice on the other end answered. Had he been thinking clearly, he might have wondered how the operator could sound so dismal, as if her life wasn't chock full of excitement. After all, she was something of a puppeteer in such a job. She had the capability to deny someone the help they needed in the moment, allowing them to go without treatment. Bleed out on their white carpet floor, choke on a piece of chicken that went down the wrong way, hemorrhage at their daughter's funeral while the blushing bride dialed the phone, begging for assistance. The possibilities were endless, and he imagined she'd seen them all.

With such power in her possession, Eli hoped she would sound the least bit excited about it. Or at least antsy. After all, his well-being was in her hands now.

"I need an ambulance." he choked out, his own voice sounding foreign to him. Gravelly. The weight was finally getting to him, the toxin coursing through his veins and shutting down each organ, one by one.

The dull voice echoed back his current address to him, to which he nodded numbly. His grip on time and space was slipping quickly, a warm sensation creeping from his wrist up the rest of his left side. It wouldn't be long now at all.

"And what's your emergency, sir?" she queried, just as cool and collected as before.

Sound panicked, worried, anything. Just fucking tell me you're human.

Because I'm not panicked, someone should be.

Someone should fucking care.

Maybe she would, but it'd be too late. He never deserved her kindness in the first place.

A distinct aching sensation took hold of him, at the center of his chest, stretching outward.

"There's been a suicide."

"And who is the victim?"

He would have chuckled if he could, if only he had control over his motor functions. It was a shock that he was still holding the phone even, his other hand cradling his head as he began to convulse.

"...I am."