BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE:
AN END...
It’s hard to remember your own death. It hurts to just think about it, but
I’m very glad this book made it to you, for you are the future and now you can be
the ones to help create it.
I’ll tell you my story—but first I must share my memory of how it all started. . .
Laughing and playing, making funny noises, teasing my brother, while the city rushes by outside our windows. . . Then Mom screams, “Kids, remember what I said about— GO LIMP!— WE’RE GOING TO—” . . . screeching tires, clashing, crunching, a deep thud. I am now gasping for breath, focusing on each intake as it burns, looking at the world, the ceiling of our van, those cute Care Bear stickers I put up for my little sister. She is crying. I can just see through some haze enough to unhook her from her car seat. My arms are so weak. Things are swirling still, even though we have slid to a stop.
I hear Mom. Her voice is scared. She’s asking me if I’m all right, saying, “Hang on! I heard an ambulance. Just hang on, please. They’ll help you. Avi, you can do it! Stay with us! I love you, sweetie.” Her eyes are brimming with tears, but she is not yet crying. Then I see my brother. He is not moving. He is wet with blood and there is glass all around. Mom has unhooked herself and twisted through the van to be by his side. “Avryn, oh, sweetie, Avryn!— Please please open your eyes.” Now she is sobbing and with each heave of her chest I imagine she is sucking in all of the air in the van. As she wails, “Avryyyyn!!!!” I struggle to breathe.
Paramedics come, a blur of faces, colors, tubes, words. I always thought it’d be cool to ride in an ambulance—all that high-tech equipment to ask about,
sirens clearing the way— But I’m not thinking about that now, only about survival—focusing on each heavy breath. . . A hand grasps mine. I can feel the warmth, the strength, the love, the comfort. Is it my mom or a paramedic? I can’t tell. I don’t care. I’m scared. Something is very wrong with my body. It isn’t working right. . . I can’t sit up. I can’t even think to sit up. I can’t focus on anything— I’m fading out, fading in—my body is one with the bed.
The sirens stop. I’m being carried through doors under bright lights to a room. The bright lights are silhouetting faces. A machine is hooked up to me. There are lots of lights, noises, beeping. I fade out to sleep. . . I have only exhaustion, non-awareness. When I’m aware, I see a flickering light coming from the darkness. For a brief moment of clarity through the pain, I can see where I am, know who I am, how I got here. I struggle to think beyond my pain. I see a lot of people: Mom, Dad, my little baby sister Avalyse. I try to smile at her. She’s so cute, kissing me, petting me, she looks like an angel. She sees me looking at her and starts to cry. “I love you, Avianna, please don’t leave me.”
Mom sees me smile weakly. When she sees that my eyes are aware, her body jumps to my side, bending down, breathing sweetly. “Avianna, are you there? Hang on, stay with us— You can do it. I love you. When you were a baby, I loved you so much I sang to you with tears in my eyes, showing you the beauty of the trees and the world.” She is starting to cry but tries to finish. “From my being, I sang to you of life. You have so much to see and learn about life as you grow. You have to do this— Come on baby, you can.” She is grasping my hand so hard I can feel it over my pain. I’m straining to breathe in her breath. It is so sweet. I know my face is red. She turns away from me, muffling sobs, and hugs my little sister, gently stroking her golden-red, cascading hair. I wish I could.
Dad takes over, “I love you Avi. You’ll be all right. You can do this. You have to do this. We need you. Your little sister needs you. Your brother is . . .” My brain is hijacked by pain. Avoiding the pain is all the work my body can do. I can’t hear anymore. With each breath that racks my body, the pain primally encompasses all. How can I avoid a fraction of it, until the button on the I.V. is pushed and I fade out? . . . Someone’s hand is rubbing my face, gently. I open my eyes. The bright room is there, the ceiling bare, a burning pierces my chest. The machines are beeping louder. With the stabbing there is a tightness, like I’ve held my breath too long in my pool and I need to come up for air. I’m hanging on, fading away, the pain blinds me, I’m crazed for air, gasping. There is
a tightness, a stillness . . . and all becomes dark. . .
And at my end—my story begins: