Overwritten

01 | Bitter

The day I died, it was a bitter morning. It was uncomfortably cold, the sort of cold where everything itches.

Just mere moments ago, I had waved goodbye to my Mom for the last time, now standing in a line of girls, shoulder to shoulder, like sardines packaged together. On the front of the tin, a navy blue sticker, the brand printed alongside an expiration date of sixteen years.

An impatient sigh left my mouth, glancing ahead at least a dozen girls waiting ahead of me. The thin cotton clothes weren't helping anybody in this early March weather. Murmurs carried through the line as each waited for their fate to be decided. 

Across from us, boys filled a line identical to this, the same cotton clothes with the same look of dread and excitement plastered on their faces. From the moment we were born, every second was spent leading up to March 3rd. 

"I'm so nervous, aren't you?" said a girl in front of me, proudly displaying a grin as she spun to face me. Her eyes sang with excitement, nerves laced in. But, I think for many others, nerves were often mistaken. She waited for a reply, and when she received nothing in return, she quickly added, " Our soulmates will be decided in this very building, and- and oh, also our job!"

"Really, wow? I assumed we were lining up for no reason!" it was clear from my voice that I didn't want to speak, or at least not, to her. What she hoped to gain out of this conversation was beyond me. She pursed her lips; the over-applied lipstick cracked as she spun around. I couldn't help but smirk.

I glanced around to the line across from this one. Of course, there were two lines—one for men, one for women. Everyone was wearing the same school uniform, the white buttoned shirt, navy blue jeans, and painfully dull black boots. Traditionally, girls had their hair in ponytails no matter how long—clean-shaven and short hair for the boys.

Unlike most people, I was more concerned about what job I was getting. On this day, people were fantasizing about their true love. But the only thing my heart was settled on was writing. I hoped to get into journalism, publishing, or something related. The thought of having a mediocre desk job was traumatizing. 

"Listen, I'm not gonna let ya in if ya don't put ya hair up like the rest of 'em, darl," the lady at the desk growled, impatience intertwined with exhaustion. I couldn't blame her; honestly, she was stuck as a receptionist for a herd of nervous, excited teenagers. 

Everybody in the line peered forward at what was happening, and it was clear within moments. The girl at the front of the line had her hair down, and I rolled my eyes. Everybody knew the tradition, however stupid it was. Hair was supposed to be up. No excuses. The girl, however, was visibly upset, shaking as she glimpsed back at us with glassy eyes.

"I don't... I don't have a hair tie..." she fumbled over the words, her voice straining as she glanced around. The boy's line knew what was going on; their focus switched to the drama that was sure to unfold. My best guess is some expected to watch at least some form of electrocution in front of them and were eager not to miss if something happened. I sighed before taking a step forward.

"I have a spare one," I said, pulling out one of my hair ties from my ponytail. My hair was thick, so from a young age, it was always easier to wear two hair ties to keep things stable. I handed it to her and gave a forced smile. It was hard to feel sorry for her when everybody knew the rules.

She began to tie up her hair as I returned to my place. My Mom taught me that trick, the double tie when the elastic broke or thicker hair. As an image of her face crossed my mind, the bitter-sweetness made me wince. After today, I was never to see her again.

As I glanced back at the girl, I stopped. I blinked again, thinking maybe it was a shadow, or I had imagined it. But as she scanned her thumb, shifting the ponytail to the side, it was as clear as glass.