Life Without Me

Chapter 2

And now I’m in my room, placing items in random boxes, deciding which of my loved ones gets whatever crappy piece of junk I have hiding in my desk drawers. But I don’t think about my empty room, no, I focus on where these items are going. Honestly I wish I had some cool shit to give people, you know like they always have in movies. A key to something spectacular, or a diary full of profound thoughts about life, or maybe a locket that has been around for hundreds of years and holds more meaning than five of my worthless lives combined. But I don’t, I have some books, my old camera and an electronic toothbrush that plays music if you brush correctly.

My books, I decided long ago, are really the only things I have worth passing on, and my mother readily agreed. “It’s perfect,” she had squealed, when I brought up the idea a few weeks ago, “write a personal inscription in all of your books, and give one to each of the people closest to you.”

I agreed, not really realizing what a monumental task this would be. My mother made a “Book List” the next day, writing down the name of every person I’d ever met, so that I never ran out of people to write to. As of now I’ve done one, and that’s only because my friend Jake let me borrow his favorite book a long time ago and I figured it was only right to give it back. But other than him I’m pretty lost- I can’t really right a cute note to my grandmother in 50 Shades of Grey now can I? The book must be perfectly selected, and then perfectly explained in a well written paragraph that my friends and family will understand. I need every single person in my life to know how much I love them, but that’s a rather difficult task for a 17 year old that barely scrapes by in English with a solid C.

Back in my bedroom, I boxed up my classics: Jane Eyre and The Awakening, than the Harry Potter series, remembering every hart wrenching emotion I felt with every beautifully written page. Next I piled up my entire Stephen king collection and place them next to my stack of John Green books, which probably have more tear stains on them than my hospital bed sheets. Box after box I emptied my book shelf and all I could think about was the daunting task of writing in all of them, and the overwhelming fear that I wouldn't have enough time to do as many as I wanted to or needed to.