Chapter One.
1044 Words
The first time I open the End app I'm alone in my room.
The time is close to midnight.
Street light comes through the window in a thin line.
My phone screen is the clearest thing in the dark.
About a year ago the official app came out for everyone over eighteen.
The state says it's a personal right.
You use it to see the date and time of your death.
Each person decides to use it or not.
Some of my classmates at university opened it on the first day.
They laughed.
They cried.
They made a group chat about who will die before who.
Then they kept living their lives.
I didn't open it at that time.
I kept telling myself I don't want to live with a countdown above my head.
I told myself a story about courage.
The truth is that I was very afraid.
My father died a year before the app.
He always said a person shouldn't know the day he leaves the world.
He used to laugh when he heard about the early tests.
He said death doesn't like official schedules.
Then he went out on a normal day and never came back.
My mother is the opposite of him.
When the app came out she booked an appointment at the official center.
She came home holding her phone like a test result paper.
She said calmly that she has a set number of years.
From that day she started to divide her life by that number.
I stayed between them.
I don't like the ignorance of my father or the certainty of my mother.
I study digital media at a normal university in a city that sees everything through screens now.
I work part time at a citizen service center.
I book appointments for people who want to update their death date data.
I hear their short sentences at the counter.
I see their faces before and after they press the confirm button.
All this time I never opened my own app.
In the last week something small changed inside me.
I started to feel that delaying the decision is a decision by itself.
I wake up at night and think that my date is already there in some database even if I never look at it.
I feel like there's a locked door with my name on it somewhere.
The door won't disappear just because I don't want to see it.
Today I finished my shift at the center more tired than usual.
I watched two people come out of the room where they check their date.
The first one came out laughing and telling his friend that he has a long time.
The second came out holding her phone in one hand and the other hand over her mouth.
Like she was trying to keep a sound from coming out.
On the way home I made a simple decision.
I'll open the app in my room alone.
I won't tell anyone at first.
If the date is far I'll close the screen and laugh at my old fear.
If it's near nothing will change just because I know it or I don't know it.
That's what I try to tell myself.
Now I'm on my bed.
My little sister is sleeping on the other bed.
Her breathing is calm.
My mother is in the next room probably watching a new court drama.
The whole apartment feels normal.
The same details I've known for years.
I lift my phone.
I look for the app icon.
Its background is white with a small black dot in the center.
The name under it is one word.
End.
I tap the icon.
The app opens fast.
It asks for my fingerprint to confirm my identity.
I place my finger on the scanner.
It asks me to confirm that I take responsibility for seeing this information.
That I won't ask the system to change it.
That my knowledge won't affect the countdown.
I've seen all these lines a thousand times on other peoples screens at the center.
Now they're on my screen.
At the top my full name appears.
Lina Stein.
My age.
Twenty four.
My ID number.
Then a small button at the bottom.
Show death date.
I put the phone beside me for a few seconds.
I stare at the ceiling.
I try to hear my own heartbeat.
A funny thought comes to me.
To leave the phone like this.
To say that I tried.
That delaying the tap means I'm still alive.
I pick up the device again.
I think of my father.
Of my mother.
Of the people I see every day at the center.
Of the heavy air in the waiting room.
I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a road that never ends.
Either I walk forward or I go back.
I tap the Show death date button.
The screen stays white for a second.
Then the date and time appear in one clear line.
I read the numbers once.
Then a second time.
I look for a mistake in the day or the month or the year.
The words don't feel like they belong to me.
The date is very close.
Three months from today.
At three in the morning.
I lift my eyes from the screen.
The room doesn't look the same anymore.
Everything is in its place.
Everything is different in my head.
I thought I'd scream or cry or fall to the floor when I knew.
None of that happens.
I just breathe.
Like my body has one main job.
To keep air going in and out.
The phone is still in my hand.
Under the date there's a small extra line I never saw on other peoples screens before.
I need a second to focus on reading it.
It asks if I want to request a special extension offer.
I stare at the short sentence.
I don't press anything.
Not yes and not no.
All I know in that moment is that talking about death in this world isn't as final as I thought.
And that this extra line under my death date means my life won't stay simple like it was on the night before.
- Writer
