Illusive

Chapter Twelve

"I can't believe exams are over!" Gigi screeches as we sit across from each other at the coffee shop. My hands feel the supreme heat of my freshly-made hot chocolate cupped in my palms, Gigi holds her fancily made drink in one hand as she sips on the cold beverage through a pale yellow straw and clear plastic cup.

"Aren't you glad?" I ask her with a smile as we sip on our drinks. The air conditioning in the cafe sends slight chills down my back and cools my arms.

"Yeah! Very much so!" Gigi says cheerily.

"Oh yeah," she adds, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot," I tell her with a smile.

"Since it's the end of exams I wanted to ask you if you wanted to come to this fire with me tonight. They call it the 'Burn the Books' party but everyone just takes their old school work and tosses it all in the fire and it's a really awesome party. I want you to come with me," She smiles as she sets her drink down on the table.

"You don't have to bring me along if you'd rather go alone," I tell her.

She grabs my hands off of my hot chocolate cup and holds them in hers, "I want you to come Atlas. I want you there."

"Are you sure?" I ask as she stares into my eyes. I return the eye contact and I notice the specks of blue in her grey eyes.

Her soft hands squeeze mine, "Yes, I do Atlas. Of course I do."

"Then I'll gladly accept. Ready to burn the books?" I ask her.

Her smile grows, "Time to burn the books."

| | |

"Wow, you have so many books," Lily says as she dances around my room, running her fingers along the book spines on the bookshelf.

"Yeah, I do," I say as my fingers turn a page of one of Grampa's journals from an earlier time in his life. He wrote about so many stories and even linked them to his poems.

"Lils, can you please pass the book on the lowest shelf that's black leather and says 'Poems 1979' please and thank you," I ask her politely as I lie on my bed, my head being propped up by my body pillow.

She hums and sings lightly as she finds the book and places it on my chest. I open the book and skim the pages for a poem of his titled, 'The Way I See'. The bed suddenly shifts and bounces as Lily plunges onto the bed. My eyes tear from off the page as Lily bundles up under my arm. I keep reading as she also looks at the words on the page.

"What's a poem?" She asks me as her eyes scour both open pages.

"A poem can be a lot of things, Lily," I explain as I pull the page across to reveal the next two.

"A poem is a piece of writing that sounds pleasant to the ears while giving the reader strong feelings or looking into the poet's mind and feelings," I watch Lily gently nod her head as her eyes read more on the worn-down papers on Grandpa's journal.

"Huh," She nods in thought as I turn the pages again.

"Dinner!" Mom calls distantly from upstairs. Lily instantly sits straight up, knocking the book out of my hand and it falls shut as it lands face down on my bed. She eagerly jumps off the bed and bounds down the hallway, her little feet patter down the hallway as she goes, all within two seconds and I feel dumbfounded.

I move the two books from my bed onto my bedside table along with my grandfather's last journal. I remember it was the last thing he left for me on the day after I last saw him. It was some of his last words that he probably had ever thought, and I haven't even read them yet.

I pull out the journal from the bottom of the stack rapidly flip through the pages with the edge of my thumb until I reach the end where blank pages meet my vision.I stop and slowly leaf back through the papers to the final journal entry, where his black ink last hit the page.

11 April 2017

"Atlas! Supper!" Mom yells impatiently from the top of the stairs at the end of the hallway, being louder than before. She won't wait any longer, her tone means enough. I glance over the messy words on the page and I close the book. I set the journal down on my bed with intentions to read it later, and almost movie-like, the book holds its secrets as I walk away and it's the only thing left on my bed.

11 April 2017

It's 1:38AM. I know this is my last entry, this is why I'm up at one in the morning. I need to write one more time before I go. My bones ache. I'm dying and I'm nearly dead. It feels like a movie moment to recount my life one last time before I have to kiss it goodbye and close my eyes for good. I will miss my family and I will miss my friends. I regret not showing them how much I love them earlier. I regret passing this genetic through to my family. I regret not taking every single chance I could have in my life. Even if I wanted to now, I feel tired. Too overwhelmingly tired. Even if I had one miraculous last chance, I wouldn't take it. My rugged bones could not handle it, my lungs could not bear any more breathing minutes. My time is all up. But I don't regret some things, most importantly I don't regret writing everything. I don't regret the hours I spent on writing my thoughts and recounts of the day, matter of fact I don't regret a single minute because it's just that. I spent the most of my time doing what I enjoyed, and that is time well spent. There's nothing more enjoyable than recounting all of the moments I was alive and in fact, living. Because it is human to feel, and feeling and living is true beauty. Every manic high, depressed low, and raged fury, I am thankful for them all. They show that no matter my condition killing me early, that I still lived and that I am human. Because that is what matters to me the most. I may have lost the game, but I was winning the entire time. And even if these are the last few words I ever write, I am proud and I cherish them because they won't be forgotten, only kept in our hearts and in the minds of those in our family bloodline. Before I lay this pen down for good, I am happy to know, that my words cannot be forgotten -- only remembered.