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Have you ever thought of when you are going to die? How you are going to die? What it will feel like?

I'm cursed. Cursed with a terrible ability some would call a 'gift'. What I wouldn't give to be normal. Or at least not a freak of nature.

When I was only five years old, my parents were disgusted with the grotesque things I described to them. The feeling of being burned alive, sick with cancer, shot in the head, drowned in a muddy lake, heart failure, stabbed with a knife; all accompanied by an eerie number. Therefore, they seemed it fitting to drop their only child off on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

All I remember of that day is the repulsed, yet scared, look of my parents. I knew they hated me, but they also feared me. They only left me with two things; the clothes on my back and a name: Dakota Grinn.

I was found and brought to a social worker after three days of sitting in the dry Nebraskan breeze. She took one look at me and sent me off to my first foster home; a single man in his late fifties who's wife and son died a year before in a car accident.

My foster dad was nice, but I knew I couldn't stand living there if I knew when he was going to die, so I insisted on wearing nothing but long sleeves and gloves at all times. If my skin didn't touch his, I'd never see the bluish-white bright numbers that burn behind my eyes, indicating his death date. I'd never feel his death like it was my own.

But, as I said before, I'm cursed. Cursed with seeing and feeling someone's death. Cursed with bad luck. Cursed with the want of fellow human affection and contact.

As I was going to bed one night, I thought to myself, 'Can't I just have one hug? If I keep my bare skin away from his, I'll be okay, right?'. My fatal mistake was when he placed his warm hand on the back of my neck.

11/01/2001.

My heart constricted as if someone was physically crushing it in their meaty hands. A burning heat made it feel like it was going to explode. I gasped for breath as I struggled to escape my foster dad's grasp, trying to break our skin to skin contact. Jerking in his arms, I finally broke the connection, making my heart feel normal again.

He died in the next year on November first due to a heart attack. I was sent to my next foster home.

~*~*~

Ever since that incident, I became unruly and distant, vowing never to endure that experience again. I was hopped around many foster homes; the foster parents never putting up with any of my bull sh*t.

I was an outcast at school, still am. I never leave my room without a long sleeve hoodie, gloves, fully covered skinny jeans, and my boots. No skin ever shows other than my face, which is too hard to explain why it's covered.

Living in fear, I've giving up all hope of having the sense of closeness that one gets with friendship or family. I've taken extra steps to be cruel and b!tchy to the ones that get too attached.

As my newest social worker, Suzan Kultz, pulls into my nineteenth foster home within twelve years, I take in the scenery.

Minnesota is such a beautiful state. On the drive up here from my late foster home in Des Monies, I was bombarded with trees. So many trees. Every other state I've been in, Nebraska, South Dakota, Iowa, I've never seen this amount of trees. Towering pines to broad oaks, I was fascinated from the first glance.

You couldn't pass ten minutes without spotting a lake. There's over 15,000 lakes in Minnesota and on a bright, sunny day like this, everyone of those lakes are occupied by boats and swim landings carrying from fisherman to laughing teens to gurgling babies.

We go farther north. Only about two hours from Minneapolis, this small town we entered is surrounded with tall, leafy trees. This place seems more rural with the promise of a tall bridge over a rapid river and very few houses scattered in the woods.

I rest my chin against my gloved hand and peer outside the window with my mother's bright chestnut eyes. We pass a Caribou in the busier part of town and my I gaze upon it longingly. Coffee; my deadly sin.

I flip my father's long dark brown hair out of my eyes and sit up as we pull into a very posh looking driveway. It winds up into an alcove of trees that reveal a medium sized house.

"Dakota," Suzan's voice makes me pause in exiting the car, "I know about your past foster homes, but I want you to actually try to be nice to this woman. She's younger than most foster parents and you're her first foster child. I don't want you giving her trouble, okay?"

I scowl and leave the car, not responding. I lug my suitcase from the back of the car and head for the door, not even waiting for Suzan. Ringing the doorbell, I step back and put an unpleasant look on my face. That look, however, is replaced with one of shock as I take in my new foster mom's appearance.

She's very pretty, with very short brown and blonde hair styled in a longish fauxhawk. With large gauges and dark makeup around her blue eyes, she has this exotic type of beauty that some find off putting. Her large sweater and leggings clash with her punk-like face, making her look more indie-rock. But the most surprising thing is her age. She looks about only ten or eleven years older than me, twenty-seven to my seventeen.

She smiles brightly at me, but doesn't say anything yet. Suzan hurries up to the door and shoots me a look before extending her hand to my new foster mom.

"Hi, Ms. Goodie, I'm Suzan Kultz. This is Dakota, your new foster son." The two women shake hands very formally and I'm already starting to dislike 'Ms. Goodie'.

"Nice to meet you both," my foster mom says in a heavy British accent, "Dakota, take your trunk to your room, yeah? Up the stairs, second door on the left."

I nod solemnly and do as she says. The room I now have to call mine is on the small side, but I actually like it. It's cozy and I have a nice view of the forest through my window. The walls are a cool gray and the furniture is all black, making it look like a room of death or something. How fitting.

I know that I don't actually kill the people I touch, but I still feel responsible for not warning them about when and how they'll die. Maybe they could prevent it somehow? Who knows, maybe there's more people like me out there with similar abilities? I shake that silly thought out of my head and go back downstairs.

"Take care, Ms. Goodie, and thanks again!" Suzan turns to me as she opens the front door, almost gone. "Bye Dakota, remember what I told you."

"Bye bye now." my foster mom waves as my b!tch of a social worker leaves her house. As the door shuts, Ms. Goodie turns to me and exclaims, "Whata b!tch!"

Shocked, I have no idea how to respond. "Um, Ms. Goodie?" I start, confused.

"Lunnette Goodie, at your service!" she states, her British accent still very prominent. "But call me Loonie. Moved her only six months ago. I'm twenty-nine and I like kittens. Now that you know a little bit about me, share about yourself."

I blink once, twice. "My name's Dakota," Loonie looks at me as if I'm stupid.

"No sh*t, Sherlock." She smiles at me but sighs. "Well aren't you just a biscuit with milk. Seems you'll have to warm up to me, otherwise things around here will be rather blunt, won't it?"

Still in shock, I merely stare back at her. I- I actually like her. A feeling to tell her everything and become friends overcomes my body and suddenly I feel very lonely.

"Aye, are you okay? You look a bit knackered. Here, come on and sit on the couch. I'll go make some tea." Loonie leaves the room.

I hesitantly sit, taking in the interior. It's all very stylish I guess. I've never really had an eye for style though. Looking at my lap, I stare at my hands.

Slowly, I pull of both of my gloves and stare at my hands. Who knew that a thin piece of fabric could determine my sanity?

Loonie comes back in with two mugs and sets them on the coffee table in front of us. "I only had one tea bag left so you get coffee. Ha, sucks for you; that stuff tastes like sh*t." She sips at her tea with a smug smile planted on her face.

I look at her amused and greedily gulp down the black liquid. This chick's awesome! She swears and she looks like the sister I've always wanted!

The caffeine enters my system and I can already feel my brain going into hyper drive. Coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee.

"Um, Loonie?" I feel weird saying her name. "Do you mind if I go explore the town a little?"

Loonie pretends to look stern. "A few rules should be made up first. No drugs or drinking without me, no bonking until you know their name, and be back before I find out."

A rare grin spreads across my face. "Thanks Loons."

"Hrm. 'Loons'. I like that," Loonie smiles and opens the front door for me. "Now shoo."

Before I have time to stop her, she ruffles my hair.

12/06/2015.

My vision around my eyes goes black as I'm over taken with sudden dizziness. I can't breathe. My throat closes up and my eyes begin to water.

12/06/2015.

The bluish-white light burns behind my eyelids every time I blink, even after I'm out the door, running away from Lunnette's death.

I've been running for only a few minutes when I reach the outskirts of the small city. I reluctantly turn around and start wandering aimlessly through the woods, back towards this god forsaken town.

12/06/2015.

Why is Loonie going to die in only three short years? How exactly is she going to die? Most of the feelings are fairly clear-cut but this one... all I know is that she couldn't breathe. Not from drowning; my lungs didn't fill up with the cool liquid. Not from suffocation; I couldn't even conjure up a few last gasps for air. Honestly, I have no clue. It was like her airway was blocked.

As I approach the busier part of town, I notice all the teenagers. Bubbly girls dressed in shorts and low tops for the summer and guys in swim trunks and plain tees, trying to impress the scantly clad girls.

All of the girls were very attractive, but I don't think I'm sexually attracted to them. The same goes for the guys though. I can appreciate their looks and body types, but I just can't see myself wanting them.

I've always been like this; confused as to which gender I want to be with. Maybe I don't like guys or girls. Maybe I'm plant-sexual. Now that I think of it, I do keep staring at those bushes funny....

To test my theory, I walk over to the bush and place my bare hand on it. No numbers flash behind my eyes. No heart wrenching feeling occurs in the pit of my stomach.

Yep, I could work with this.

"Um what are you doing?" an amused voice asks.

I whip around and stare at a drop dead gorgeous guy. He's about the same height as me, maybe a bit shorter, and has soft looking, dark brown hair. He has a cute boyish charm to his looks, but still appears very grown up and masculine. His dove gray eyes stare amusingly at my poor, flustered self.

Yes, I think he's hot (oh god, yes), but I still can't see myself loving him. It probably has something to do with my reluctance to get close to anyone. I can't handle the thought of knowing when my loved one will die every time we touch. Never able to kiss. Never able to hold my lover at night. Never able to have what everyone in this world wants: A sense of normalcy found in affection.

"Hey, you okay?" He reaches for my wrist, but I jerk my arm away.

Awh nawh. Not happin', sista.

At first he looks confused but then a sudden realization comes over his face. He must think I cut myself or something. No, no I do not. If I wanted to give myself pain, I'd go high five a child.

We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds. He drops the whole no-touchy-wrist thing and clears his throat before saying, "I'm Andrew, but everyone calls me Andy. Are you new here?"

Wearily, I reply, "Yeah. I'm Dakota. Now go away." I turn on my heel and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my Alesana hoodie. This time I'm actually reluctant to leave. For reasons I do not know, I've already taken a liking to this boy.

Which makes the need to leave him all the faster.

A hand on my arm stops me from fleeing. Thank god I'm wearing my sweatshirt. I spin around and glare at Andy dangerously.

"Don't ever touch me." I spit out with as much malice in my voice as I can muster.

With wide eyes, he steps back a little before strutting even closer to me. I stumble backwards until my back hits the side of a building. Andy leans in close and I can smell the sweet, woodsy sent he expels.

"Look, I only tried to help you. I don't need yours or anyone elses crap. So let me try to make things better for you so you don't cut yourself again." His small glare softens and he really looks like he wants to help.

To my mortification, I feel my cheeks going red as I try to explain myself. I look down and mutter, "I don't,"

"Don't what?"

"I don't cut myself. I just can't touch people." I press my back against the wall, straining to get as far away as possible from him even though my body is yearning to do the exact opposite.

I curse my self for saying that. Now he's going to ask why I can't! What am I s-

"Why not?" Andy asks confused. He leans in closer, making me whimper. Even if he is slightly shorter than me, I flinch away and squeeze my eyes shut, awaiting the internal and external pain his death will bring me.

He backs off a little, but still quizzes me. "You really don't like touching people do you?" I slowly open my eyes and gaze up into his bright gray ones. "Can you please tell me why?" he asks with a softer voice.

I try to change the subject. "W-why do you even care? You don't even know me."

"True, I don't know you. But I think you may be the one." Andy replies with total confidence and grace.

"Huh? What do you mean 'the one'?"

Andy smiles brightly. He has an adorable smile. "The one I'm going to spend the rest of my life with,"

I stare at him, dumbfounded. What?! He's gay? But he looks completely straight!

He laughs and says, "No, I'm not gay. I'm pan-sexual; I love someone for who they are and I'm blind to gender. And you really shouldn't judge people on stereotypes. Just because someone isn't girly doesn't mean they can't be gay."

... Holy sh*t! Did he just read my mind! Is he like me?...

Andy laughs again. He has a beautiful laugh. "No, I didn't read your mind. You said that out loud, silly. And what do you mean 'like you'? Do you read minds?"

"No," I manage to say without stuttering. What if he finds out? This boy I've known for less than ten minutes has gotten closer to me than anyone else has since I was five.

"But there is something special about you, isn't there?" Andy leans closer to me once again. "Don't ask me why, but I'm fascinated with you, Dakota. See you around."

The handsome boy disappears around the corner of the building, leaving me puzzled and flustered.

I run a hand over my lightly freckled face and let out a loud sigh.

Damn, I need some coffee.

~*~*~

After my dull trip to the nearest coffee shop, I head down to the pier.

Clutching the large Starbucks coffee in my hands tightly, I climb down the sparkly light gray rocks who's color remind me of Andy's eyes.

Stop that! No thinking about him.

The water just off the rocky shoreline rushes past in a violent current with areas of jagged rocks jutting just above the water's surface. Perfect.

I stare up at the amazing sight before me. Large canyon walls encase the river with pine trees and slippery moss coating the rock. The bright blue sky brings a smile to my face. A few eagles soar overhead making it a picture perfect image.

One thing I love in life is the beauty and horrors of nature. It can be bright and peaceful, like now, or it can be deadly and fearsome. But the best part is that it doesn't have a Number.

I have it all figured out. I'm giving myself eight days. Eight days of nature, beauty, and peace. Eight days to appreciate everything life offers.

Only eight days.

With one last glance at the beautiful yet deadly river, making sure it's worth my time, I climb back up the large rocks by the bridge.

I head back to my new foster home, thinking again of Loonie's Number. How can this young woman die in only three short years? Is it possible to save her?

I've tried to save people before. If I felt their cancer sickness, I'd try to tell them to go to the doctor at get checked out. Maybe if they found it soon, it could be treated. But no matter if they listened to me and found a cancerous tumor or not, they'd still die on the same date as I predicted.

Same goes for any other danger. If I felt they'd be burned alive, I'd tell them to stay away from fire. But a small spark from an electrical box could defy my words. It was now clear that their death would happen on schedule, with or without me.

People started to get suspicious. The kids at school would call me a witch, a freak, a killer. By the time I was eight, I learned to stop trying to prevent peoples' deaths.

But Loonie's Number was a curious one. It seemed unsure and would flicker every time I would try to focus on it. The feeling was hesitant, even though it still was awful. I've never felt a Number so willing to fight for it's life.

As I wander up the winding driveway, I make myself try to forget her Number. It'll only cause complication. Her time is in three years, I don't have to worry about it right now.

I walk into the house without knocking and head straight for my new room. Just as I'm walking up the steps, Loonie's head pops out of the kitchen door.

"Oh Dakota, want some biscuits? Don't worry, I didn't put any weed in them. This time," She winks and comes out with a big pan of steaming hot cookies. Weird British people.

I gratefully take one and bring it up stairs with me, even though it scalds my hand slightly. I eat it quickly, enjoying the warm gooeyness with melted chocolate chips.

Pulling my suitcase up from the floor, I set it on my bed and unzip it quickly. I dump all of my clothes on the bed and put the suitcase on the floor. Grabbing my iPod (a gift from my eleventh foster home), I put it in the iHome that Loonie was so kind to put in my room.

I crank up the volume until it drowns out all of my thoughts on Numbers, Loonie, and especially Andy. I sluggishly put my clothes away.

When I'm finished, I plop onto my bed and let out a long sigh. How am I supposed to stay here for eight days, knowing lovely Loonie's death? She seems nice enough; why is she going to die? I expel those thoughts and let sleep overcome me.

~*~*~

Loonie bursts into my room and jumps onto my bed. I groan and roll over, trying to hide in the pillows.

She giggles and jumps on my bed more. "Wakey wakey, Dakota! Our neighbors just heard I'm fostering you and they insist on paying a visit for dinner! So get your lazy arse up and be downstairs at half past six, yeah?"

I merely groan in response but get up all the same. No point in trying to get out of this. Loonie's a powerhouse of crazy from dawn till dusk. I'll even bet she never sleeps. Just stays up all night hopped up on fruit snacks and paint fumes. Obviously.

I glance at the clock. I hate clocks. They remind me too much of what I have to go through every time I touch someone. It's 5:45 right now. What did Loons say? Half past six? What the fuck does that mean? Again, weird British people.

I grudgingly go to the shower and Loonie hops out of my room, screeching like a chimpanzee.

I peel off my clothes and turn the shower handle on full blast to cold. I love cold showers. They make my senses sharper and more keen to the people near me.

I lather up my body in soapy goodness and wash my hair. After I rinse off, I turn the shower off and use a towel to dry my skinny body. I shake out my hair like a dog, getting out most of the excess water, then I towel dry the rest so it's only damp.

Not having naturally straight hair, my longish dark brown hair falls to the base of my neck in small waves, tickling my shoulders. I don't really care about my appearance; why should I? It's not like I'm going to impress someone.

I go back to my room with a towel around my waist and pull on a fresh band tee and some dark, ripped skinny jeans. The clock says it's 6:03, indicating I have thirty more minutes until the neighbors arrive.

Sighing, I run a hand over my face and go to find Loonie. She's in the kitchen still, making dinner. She puts a dish of lasagna into the oven and sets the timer for forty minutes. Does it really take that long for lasagna to cook? Huh. Learn something every day I guess.

I take a seat at the kitchen table and rest my chin on my gloved hand. The kitchen table is dark mahogany and it echos slightly as I rap my fingers over it's smooth surface lightly.

Loonie glances at me, but goes back to her cooking. After a little while, she randomly asks, "What's you're favorite color?"

"I don't know," I think about it, "Probably gray."

"What's your favorite animal?"

"Umm, ferret?"

"What's your sexual preference?"

I stop tapping the table. After a slight pause, I answer: "I don't know."

Loonie turns around and stares at me. "I won't care, you know. My brother's gay and I love him to bits."

I sigh. "It's not that; I honestly can't see myself falling in love with anyone," I run a hand through my almost dry hair, "Boy or girl."

"Maybe you're just waiting for the the right person. The one who'll make you shiver at their voice. The one who'll make you tingle at their touch." She stares wistfully into the distance.

Pfft. Yeah, that's it. I'm waiting for someone who's touch makes me 'tingle'. As if I don't react to their touch enough. "What's with the sudden interest in my sexual life?"

Loonie returns her attention to me. "Oh no reason," she trails off in a tone that makes it clear that there is an exact reason why. "Our neighbor's are bringing their son. About your age, real charming fellow, he is."

"Oh joy," I grumble and pull myself from the seat and up to my room.

Sitting on my bed, I stare out my window and enjoy the swaying of the green pines in the wind. The clock reads 6:24 and I fall back onto my bed. I let out a weary sigh and turn my head away from the door.

The doorbell rings and Loons squeals from the kitchen. Muffled voices and laughter can be heard through the floor. It sounds like a man and a women along with Loonie's British drawl. Feet can be heard shuffling up the stairs and I tense. That's not my foster mom.

The door creaks open, but I'm too much of a p*ssy to check who it is. The feet stride over until the figure casts a shadow over my face. I turn my head so I can see who it is.

A cute nine year old blocks the sun from my eyes. He has light, dirty blonde hair and bluish gray eyes.

"Hi," he chirps happily, "Loonie says to get your-" he giggles, "-'arse' downstairs!"

I raise a dark eyebrow at him. Is this who Loonie wanted me to hook up with?

"Hurry up Nathan, we're eating soon." a voice calls from the stairs.

My body instantly relaxes at the velvety voice. Wait. I know that voice.

I sit straight up are stare at Nathan. I thought he looked familiar.... Someone else enters the room.

"Well hello there, Dakota. Nice to see you again." Andy tries to put a gentle arm around my shoulder, but I jerk away. "Still not touching me I see." A strange determination pops up in his eyes. "Hey Nate, why don't you give Dakota here a big hug? It looks like he could use it.

Before I know what's happening, two skinny arms squeeze my waist. I try to struggle out of Nathan's grasp, but the kid's like a koala. He hasn't touched my skin yet, but I know it's just a matter of time. I freeze as I feel him grip me tighter. I don't care that he's practically crushing my bones; All I can feel his his warm, comforting arms.

Affection. It's been about three years since I've let anyone hug me. My eyes water on their own accord and I don't fight him anymore. Screw Numbers. I wrap my arms around his seven year old boy and hug him back with all that I have. I can feel the tears leak down in small streams, but I just keep on hugging him.

I catch sight of Andy peering at me over his brother's shoulder. He looks surprised at my reaction, but I just stare at him with damp eyes.

7/30/2052.

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere our skin brushed together. A burning lump appears in my right lung and I gasp in pain. My throat feels raw, raspy, and my mouth has the bitter taste of smoke.

7/30/2052.

I've felt this many times. Lung cancer; most likely from smoking (i.e. the smoke taste and throat feeling). I may be a little off, but I'm positive it's lung cancer.

7/30/2052.

I gasp, the tears pouring out by now, I try to push Nathan away, but he still doesn't realize anything's wrong. Sh*t. The Number just keeps flashing behind my eyes but I can;t find it in myself to be aggressive enough to push the poor kid away.

7/30/2052.

7/30/2052.

7/30/2052 7/30/2052 7/30/2052 7/3-

Nathan is ripped away from my arms by a very terrified looking Andy. I back away as quickly as I can, not caring if I look like a freak ironically running away from a leper. I busy myself by breathing deep and burying my face into my pillow.

I hear Andy whisper something into his little brother's ear. No more hugging for a long time. The end of my bed shifts and I let out a loud, pathetic whimper.

"I sent Nate to tell everyone that we won't be at dinner." Andy's calming voice rings like the heaven's chorus in my ears. "Please, tell me what just happened."

I gather myself and push away the Number, like I always do. I go through this all the time. Just say what you rehearsed. "Panic attack," I glace into his stormy gray eyes, "I don't like being touched."

"No," he quickly argues, "I've seen panic attacks before and they are not two sided like that. First you're clinging to him like you've never had a hug before and next you act as if he was causing you pain. I don't get it."

I glare at him, my eyes dry now. "Like I said. Panic attack."

I ignore him for the rest of the night. I avoid him like the plague until he leaves. After dinner was done, I convinced Loonie that I didn't feel good. She let me go to my room to rest, but I could still hear the muffles of a conversation in the living room. After awhile, the house falls silent as Andy, Nathan, and the rest of their family leaves.

I turn to face the tall window; cool moonlight shedding on half my face. The night is so beautiful. Trees cast long shadows, but the moon makes them glow with a silver tint. The clear sky shows a deep blue, bordering on black, with millions of white spirits dotted in s precise pattern.

I sigh in content and close my eyes, capturing that scene behind my eyelids.

Only seven days to go.

A/N: Quick thing, if you don't quite understand, Dakota sees the date that someone will die when there is skin to skin contact. He also feels what the person will either feel like when they die, or how they die. Sorry if it's kind of confusing~ just ask me if you need me to explain something

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