The Printer of Death

My mom died recently. I would’ve been surprised, but she was old. And it was predicted to perfection, down to the minute. The old printer in the corner of my room whirred to life one day a few months ago. I hadn’t printed anything since college, almost six years now. It expelled a single sheet of paper with a cough of dust. In small font in the center of the paper, it showed my mother’s name, followed by her age, and a date and time. I left it in the ancient printer, I thought it was a mistake.

M. Carter, 74, was pronounced dead at 12:16 on October 3rd, just as the prophecy foretold. I showed my father and he struck me. You knew and didn’t tell anyone, he repeated over and over to me. I didn’t know, I pleaded to him. That was the last time we spoke. Since then, I’ve gotten several more of these notices. My father being one of them.

S. Carter, 72, only had several more months to live. I would say I was surprised, but more than anyone else, he deserved it. I grappled with myself for several days, deciding whether to tell him his destiny. I drove to his widowed home, no one was home. I went in and placed both notes under a picture of her sitting next to her ashes on the mantlepiece. I don’t know if he ever saw the notes, I never heard from him again. I wasn’t sad when I was notified of his death on January 16th.

Honestly, I never considered the first two notes anything other than a coincidence or somebody fucking with me. That was until the third one. N. Ferguson, 28, my fiancé had three days to live. I showed her and she laughed it off, she was perfectly safe she said. I hovered over her the following three days. Every place she went, I followed. The store, to work, everywhere. On the third day, just when I thought we were safe, it happened. I was following her home, but they had run a light that had just turned red when hers turned green. I only remember the screeching of breaks and the crunching of metal on March 3rd.

I would say her note was the most painful, but then I saw my own name spit out from the printer. E. Smith, 29, only had one week to live. I thought this was some sick joke. But three is hardly a coincidence, it’s a trend. I had no elaborate plan to evade the inevitable, for the printer had already foretold its prophecy. So, as I write this note, forty-five minutes from my demise, live as you would, had you not known.

Reader, 22, July 23rd, 17:56