[ WP ] Everyone dies on their birthday , but no one knows at which age it will occur .

I sat in silence, recalling a dusty memory from the archive of my youth. 
 
 We sat in silence, as the Screen blared, filling us with rage and hate. Japan had finally fallen, the last bastion of filthy capitalist scum, and we watched as in the blink of an eye, 50 million people were charred into cinders. As the image faded, the mushroom burned into my retinas, the Screen began the Lottery. My mother clutched my hand, and my father hers. Her 50th Day of Birthing had been today, and with it, her first entry into the Lottery. The numbers flashed up on the screen, and the newscaster read them out in a thin monotone. K65-96, R45-23, E43-90. The list went on, and I listened to the names as they were named for Retirement. They went to a better place, we were told, and I did not doubt them for a second. The newscaster called the final number. W33-22. My heart froze, and I turned to my mother. Surely not. Surely she was not ready for retirement. The tears streaming down her face told me all I needed to know. The Screen switched off, and a moment passed before there was a knock at the door. My mother composed herself, stood up and walked out. My father, a censor, tried to control his tears, but his sobs shook his bed, and I did not sleep well that night. 
 
 I know now that my mother did not go on to a better place. When the screen blares out those haunted numbers, I know what it means. W33-23 is called. A single tear runs down my cheek. 
 
 Today, my number is up.
