Draft 1, 15 minutes
Genome 42 was announced worldwide — a genome that had been remotely activated, causing soulmates to die at the same time. And the world changed overnight.
The wars stopped; every last one of them. Soldiers died and their wives fell to the floor of their homes, writhing as the pain their husbands were feeling coursed through their bodies.
As the mothers died, the infants had no one to care for them. Thousands of small, pale, pathetic bodies were found, tear tracks on their cheeks and their hands clutching at the dead bodies of those who had given life to them.
The protests on the streets began, and the government immediately dispersed armies, recalling them from wherever they’d been before to the homeland. Terrorism reared its ugly head in the unfortunate countries that the military had pulled out of. Women were enslaved, beaten, raped and tortured, while children were slaved to death. And yet, despite the horrors in these dark areas of the world, the protectionist agendas of every other country kept them from acting against it.
Death rates rose to an unprecedented level. Every car accident, every disease, every death killed not one person, but two. Asia was hurt most — students, unable to keep up with parental expectations and a life filled with academic disappointments, committed suicide and brought their sweethearts to death with them. The parents followed soon afterwards.
After some time, everyone was afraid to love, because they wondered of the risk to themselves. Boyfriends and girlfriends broke up; divorces were at an all-time high. No one wanted to love, because they wanted to preserve themselves.
That was what happened to Katrianna and me. I love her — I still do — but she can’t take it anymore. I understand her. But it’s a lie to say that it doesn’t hurt, and it hurts deeply. Love should transcend fear, but did she ever truly love me? I guess I’ll never know.
We’re over now, so what I’m about to do can’t hurt her. I want to tell everyone — my friends, my family, and Katrianna — that I’m sorry.
I almost don’t feel the knife as I rip it through my wrist. The blood is calming, soothing. It’ll be all over soon.
There’s a frantic knocking on the bathroom door, but it’s too late. My blood seeps into the warm water, turning it a comforting crimson.
I’m so sorry.
Note: Some people might think I'm being racist or joking about the Asian bit. I'm really not. The suicide rate of people aged between 10 and 24 is nearly 10%. 16-year-olds light themselves on fire because of poor test scores and a fear of their parents' disappointment. It's a serious issue across East Asia as a whole.