[ WP ] All people born have a number engraved on their skin , and for the past few centuries , the number has been gradually going down . You are number one

I stare at my arm, looking at the scar tissue next to my real number. As a child it was passable, but now, as a grown man, everyone could tell what my parent had done. An angry scar that used to clearly read `` 15'' sat next to a perfect `` 1.'' They had done it out of fear, and I knew that now. I did n't as a boy when every winter they would re-brand my arm in an effort to conceal my identity. But now, sitting alone, I wondered what they had been so afraid of. They could n't have known what was coming, could n't have known the impact it would have. They just knew something was different about me, that I was the last of something. 
 
 And I am the last of something. I am the last man standing among the wreckage. I am the oldest person alive today, but that wo n't last long. The war was long and terrifying. But it is nearly over. It ends with me, here, staring at my severed, scarred arm. 
 
 I just hope the 1 meant that I'm the last one to die for this. I hope after me, my best friend who was born after me, will rebuild and do it right. If he fails, maybe the numbers will come back.
