Prologue - Bury Me

The day my grandfather died, my heart sank to my toes. I still remember the call, at the mall on a date with a boy I had been admiring for years. He liked me despite my flaws like the scars that lined my arms and my skin speckled with pimple scars and the patches in my hair from pulling and pulling it when I was stressed. I remember how soft his hand was, the taste of the milkshake, the haziness of the never-washed windows in the dome of Eastwoods Mall. I loved this mall as a kid, always had good memories. It made sense that the most picturesque memory would be here. Now. Then the call.

I love calling my mom. Not just because I know that inevitably, she'll be snooping through my room and find this. Or maybe, the inevitable will happen and I will actually go through with my plans that I detail at the beginning of this book. But, the page I always skip now comes in handy, right? Anyway, I didn't want to answer, and now I can't imagine not answering. Not dropping the vanilla milkshake all over myself. Not immediately wretching my hand from his, running outside to my car, remembering I hadn't driven to the mall, panicking in the parking lot until he found me and pulled me into a tight squeeze to keep me from clawing my face noticably. My mom is going to be upset reading this, knowing that she had to ruin a date when she thought I was at work.

I dreaded the day I had to lose him. My first grandparent. We were close, thick as thieves, as he'd say before a hearty "AARGH!" and brandishing a paper towel roll. I loved the game, tying one of his large gym socks around my eye and screaming, "en garde!" before we raced around the house. I looked at the sea of faces, some I knew, some I didn't. Clutching the podium, I tried to get my memories together. Laying on his chest and protesting naptime sleepily, taking pictures of him in my graduation gown, calling him accidentally instead of my ex drunkenly and laughing for two hours, getting picked up after detention, racing the motorized shopping carts. My dad took my hand and helped me from the podium while everyone else softly cheered for my bravery.

There's now just a looming threat that I'll go to a mental hospital all because I attempted suicide at fifteen after my grandmother had a heart attack, and we thought she may not make it. Though that was almost a decade ago, everyone still worried that I would lose it. I did, in a way. I mean, a girl doesn't wear capris in summer because they want to, but I was not going to put my family through that. Not again. I can't watch my family suffer through another death. Thus, I asked my therapist for help. Now, Dr. Holly is one of my favourite people for her out of the box explanations. Knowing my OCD and perfection issues, she had heard me out for how I wanted to die and reminded me that everyone would mess up my final wishes.

It was true. While in the mental hospital, I had missed my great aunt's funeral. Not only was I upset that I was unable to be there to see her funeral be planned. My great aunt was ninety-three, and our compatible Zodiac signs and general temperaments made us closer. Throughout my life, she had essentially planned her entire funeral through me. Being unable to fulfill them, including adding her aborted baby to her obituary alongside her deceased daughter, continues to follow me daily. Therefore, I pondered and I figured instead of resuming cutting and purging or possibly driving off a bridge, I would put my energy into writing this book. My little death book, title pending, essentially is just my idealized way of planning my death so I don't actually cause it.

In the event that you find this, Mom (since I know you're reading this -_-), I'm not gonna die. I'm not suicidal. I'm just venting. Please, just put the book back in the drawer, ignore the dildo (I will not explain), and pretend you never saw anything. And since you're just going to come in and keep reading like you used to do with my diary (yes, I knew about that too), enjoy the ride and don't judge me or my decisions. You chose this.