Final Touches

I sat in my bed alone one day. My hands felt numb. My body was aching. My eyes fluttered closed, almost as if they couldn’t move anymore.

That was the day I realized I was going to die.

So I got up, I brushed my teeth, I got dressed, and I had some breakfast. Not just any breakfast. Not a hasty toast and coffee. I mean the full spread. Fresh juice, scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes. Everything.

I went to school thinking about the end of my world and how much suffering dying would end.

And then I skipped school. I spit on the front door before leaving. No good school. No good friends. No good life.

I went to my secret hideout in the woods. I sat in my castle hanging in the trees and swung across the lake using my vine. I swam. I laughed. I cried.

I jogged home to find my mother and father and tell them the great news. Should I though? Should I really tell them?

So I decided I wouldn’t. I don’t want them to cry as I pass.

Finally, I came to the end of the day. Finally, it all ended.

Finally, I thought about every painful moment of my life and made myself happy that it’s ending. Not like I could do anything to stop it.

Slowly, I closed my eyes and laid down in bed waiting for oblivion to take over.

Wait! One last final touch. I take a journal and write down all of my goodbyes to my parents and my zero friends. I lay it next to the fresh flowers I placed earlier next to my bed.

This was it. I laid back down in my freshly made sheets.

And I let my disease end me.