[ WP ] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death . Your date has passed , but nothing happened .

I had always thought I wanted to die on the dock. It was my favorite part of the lake, surely my favorite part of the old brown house. But sitting there, listening to the waves creep up the rocky shore ten feet or so behind me, the occasional cicada singing its croaky tune, I realized yet again just how little I knew myself. 
 
 I lifted my hand from the decaying wood it had been gripping so agitatedly to glance at my watch. It was a terrible watch. The strap had been a sleek black leather sight once, but now it was decorated with wrinkles and cracks faded from the sun. The glass was cracked even before it had been given to me, and it ticked so very loudly that my mother told me on the second day I possessed it that I was not allowed to wear it at the dinner table. She was terribly intolerant of most things, though, so I guess that doesn ’ t say much. 
 
 The ugly old watch read exactly one o ’ clock. I hadn ’ t expected to feel much of anything, but the nerves started then. They probably would have started sooner, thinking about it now, but I hadn ’ t even looked at the time since the sun had set, figuring it was for the best not to know. But seeing that hand strike 1:00 AM sent a cold pulse through my body that began a set of violent vibrations through my very core and, to my surprise, I reacted immediately. I had two minutes. 
 
 I pushed off of the spongey, green planks without regard for splinters or spiders and took off for the house in a run. I tripped halfway up the old stone steps built into the sloping earth and when I reached the top landing, I tore the screen door open and let its feeble little knob smash into the side of the house. My bare feet did not mind the cold tile of the kitchen floor and when I reached the stairs, they seemed not to mind the slapping of my bare feet against them as I ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, my hand found the glass doorknob to my right with no fumbling, and I pushed the door open to see a place I had long thought I hated. Tonight, it welcomed me with a beautiful slice of moonlight against shadows, highlighting a pair of navy socks on the floor and the faded patchwork quilt on my bed. I inhaled deeply, attempting to slow my hammering heart, and sat on the side of the bed. I pulled my socks on before crawling under the covers. My face found the part of the pillow that smelled the most like home, and I kicked my socks off under the sheets for one last time. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and willed myself to sleep. 
 
 My watch ticked on. 
 
 Desperate for one final moment of peace, I held my eyes shut. I tried not to count the ticks. It must have been a minute by now, almost two. I breathed in again, paid attention to what it felt like for my lungs to inflate, for my chest to rise. And then I exhaled. The ticking continued. My hand was close to my face, that ’ s just how I always slept. I had to look. 
 
 1:04 AM 
 
 I felt my heartbeat quicken again. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes tightly, with much force, and exhaled slowly. I opened them again. 
 
 1:04 AM 
 
 The time had passed. I inhaled sharply. I could still breathe. I looked across my room at my closet. I could still look. 
 
 “ This is impossible, ” I whispered aloud. I moved my right foot under the covers and felt an abandoned sock. I could still move. I could still feel. I pulled my left hand from under the pillow and brought it to my right. My fingers pushed the watchband down my arm, and I looked at my wrist. It looked the same. In pale, raised skin, the first line read my name, “ Edwin Leto ”. Just beneath it read the time I was born, “ 1/24/2016 11:31 PM ”. And then, directly below that, most importantly, was “ 8/16/2036 1:02 AM ”. 
 
 “ Time of death. ” A raspy voice in accented English shook me from my thoughts. It had come from behind the doorframe, in the hallway, and it belonged to a man I did not know. I laid there in shock for a moment, sweating suddenly, gripping the sheets, unable to even breathe, paralyzed by fear. 
 
 “ Who are you?! ” I managed to gasp finally. I was trying for a yell but achieved only a strained whisper. My throat felt as if it were collapsing from the panic swallowing my body. What was happening? 
 
 I heard movement, the step of a boot on the wood floor, and the man ’ s shadow appeared in my closet as he moved forward from the darkness of the hallway. He entered the room and I looked up at him from the sad safety of my quilt. His black hair was long and unkempt, his pale face was made darker with stubble and beard, and light eyes stared down at me from shadows cast by his massive, raised brows. 
 
 “ I ’ m Montague, ” the man said in a voice that sounded as though it would rather be speaking much, much louder. “ I think the question you should be asking, though, is who are you? ” 
 
 “ Who am I? ” I asked, still clutching my covers. I couldn ’ t keep myself from staring at his large, leather boots, laces awry, caked with mud. It hadn ’ t rained in weeks. “ I ’ m…I ’ m Edwin Leto. ” Though I tried, I failed to keep my voice from shaking. This has to be some sort of dream. 
 
 “ No, mate, ” the man said more loudly, stepping into the moonlight. “ If you were Edwin Leto, we wouldn ’ t be talkin' right about now. ” My chest felt as though it were about to implode. I could say nothing. I could do nothing. The man stepped forward again and got down on one knee by my bedside. 
 
 “ You ’ re no Edwin Leto, ” he was whispering again, his face now just inches from mine. “ You ’ re Mr. Archelaus Cain, and you ’ re coming with me. ” 

