In Memory

This book is the property of Aerian Summer O'Malley-Guildenstern, and it
is labelled as such to prevent anyone else from looking inside, so if
you're even reading this far, I suggest you put this away right now! Ha!
But seriously, I wrote this journal as a way to find the perfect words.
I wanted to be remembered for something profound, and thought I should
record what seemed to be the most important parts of my life. My best
friend Noah plays a large part in this book, and I know he changed my
life forever. How long do you think you're going to live? What would you
do if you knew? I guess the interesting thing about this particular
journal, is that one little piece of information, my deathday... I know
exactly when that's going to happen. So enjoy this. Experience my life
with me.

In Memory

This book is the property of Aerian Summer O’Malley-Guildenstern, and it is labelled as such to prevent anyone else from looking inside, so if you’re even reading this far, I suggest you put this away right now!

Ha!

187 Days, 27
August, Wednesday

Happy birthday me.
Terra
(my older sister)
bought me a carrot cake today. I was delighted that she bought it instead of trying to make it from scratch like last year. This year, I won’t be getting a
stomach
ache
for a birthday present.
This is the first personal journal I’ve ever kept, so I’m not exactly sure how to proceed.
My name is Aerian Summer O’
Malley
-Guildenstern. Although, I often neglect to acknowledge the
Summer
and O’Malley part, because I think the full thing is a bit of an overwhelmingly laughable handle.

We got mostly moved into our new house. This city is way bigger than the little town we used to live in, but Terra got an excellent job opportunity at the major hospital here. She inquired about getting a job for me too, (since I requested it) and luckily, I got a job helping in the kitchen because of her reference.

So it’s all set for the following Monday after school.

Originally, Terra and I are from Ireland, but we moved here to Canada when I was just over ten years old. That was after both our parents died, and Terra had gotten her full RNA certificate.

In retrospect, I wondered if we moved so Terra could move on. I still remember them, my parents, but pictures seem to be the only way I remember how they looked. I can still recall clearly how they felt, like Mum would always feel sad and gentle, somehow, and Dad would be strong and caring. I guess remembering these traits are more important than being able to visualize them perfectly in my mind.

But I suspect that Terra probably has clearer memories.

Today, I’m exactly eighteen, and Terra turned twenty-seven over the summer.

We celebrated her birthday with a bunch of relatives, and, even though I have a bit of our burr, I couldn’t understand half of them through their strong Irish accents.

So, now that I’m back here, I’ve discovered that my own brogue is decidedly stronger than when I left.

When we were in Ireland, I received a letter that my Mum wrote to me before she died. It was in our old house, which our Aunt Ceilidh had taken over when we left. Apparently, when she was cleaning my old room in anticipation of our arrival, she found the letter amongst all Mum’s old books.

Since the letter was safely tucked between two larger books, it was both preserved and
well-hidden
for the entire eight years we were gone.

When I opened it, there was only a small note inside, which I’ve pasted in here, it reads,

A
stóirín
, (this means ‘little love’ or something, it was her nickname for me)

Mommy loves you, and she’s sorry.

And enclosed with this letter was a large sheet of paper, folded several times, with a bunch of weird symbols on it.

Through the month of February
of next year
, I saw a big black shape. I wondered what that meant.

When I showed it to Aunt Ceilidh, she dropped her teacup right onto the floor.

Needless to say, I was surprised.

Apparently, the paper was a sort of horoscope chart of my life, and… well, it predicted the end of my life towards the end of February. Which is a sort of heavy idea to be crashing on my head. Aunt Ceilidh murmured something about how if she had known, she never would have given me the letter.

That’s a little more than six
months
… which really isn’t enough time.

Terra looked at the horoscope too, and got a very dark expression on her face. “It’s wrong, Mum got it wrong.” She then stood up and walked away quickly. Something crashed in the kitchen.

Aunt Ceilidh placed her withered hand over mine, “Do you think you’re going to die according to this, Aerian?”

Weird question, but I answered. “Mum was good at this stuff,
yeah
?” She nodded, so I smiled weakly, “
Then
I suppose I am.”

“I am sorry, a
stóirín
.”

We went home a few days after that, and Terra seems to be ignoring the entire incident. People often operate under the assumption that if
you ignore things
,
they will likely go away
.

Terra also bought me a new journal, w
hich I was delighted to receive. It has pears on the front cover, and smells really good, kind of like cinnamon. I expect she found it in the boutique; everything in there has that similar smell.

K
ept having
vivid
dreams all summer. Every night, I dreamt of flying. High in the sky, I
could even go above the clouds. O
ften, I was stuck in a building, unable to fly that high. I also dream of angels…

Not the biblical version of angels, all blond, curly-haired and plump. My angels look different.

I saw him, that angel… my angel, the one I’ve seen in my dreams since I was
young
.
He grew up with me, and was always with me since I was twelve or so.

He’s fragile.
In all ways.
Although I estimate his age to be around my own (estimation is necessary, I
dunno
how angels age, or if they age…)

He has shoulder-length black hair, and his skin is so pale that bruises appear brightly contrasted against it. I don’t know why he’s always injured, but he always appears that way. Crying in a corner with his wings folded around him, making him look even smaller. He’s blind in his left eye. It’s always blackened too, as if he has a permanent bruise ringing around it. The deep red-purple really sets off the contrast between it and his milky-white iris.

And he was crying out, always reaching for me. I kept trying to grab his hands, pull him away from whatever was making him cry.

Last night, I did grab hold of him; he fell into my embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around me. When I looked down, I saw his wings were sewn to his back. They pulled at the flesh and bled copiously from the stitches, sending streaks of blood along the silky white fabric.

Abruptly, there was a pair of scissors in my hand, so I got to work cutting those horrible wings from his back.

It was weird. The more I cut them off, the more he cried and his fingers dug into my back painfully.

At last, I snipped the last of the wings from his back and he stopped clutching me so tightly.

He pulled away, looking at me curiously.

The look in his eyes, it was so
real
;
nothing like a dream.

I need to apologise for cutting his wings off. How will he fly away now?

179 Days, 1 September, Monday

Now
that school has started, these entries might be a bit more frequent.

Today was the first day of Grade 12, and I saw him again. I saw my angel. He walked b
y me in the hallway today and
I ended up following him to the library, very sneakily. I’m pretty proud of how ninja-like I am sometimes.

Shifting
into a narrative now, I’m sure it’ll suit it more than a summary. The narrative will probably be in weird
tenses,
I don’t like sticking with present or past. Some things just sound better in one or the other.
So… yeah.

Watching
him sit there,
I
vaguely wonder if my lingering gaze is coming across as unnerving. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me, though, and
I
wonder how a conversation with him would go.

‘
Hi there!’

‘Go away. I’m dark and moody and prefer to be alone with my thoughts.’

Hmm,
can see that happening. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Okay, here goes.

(Why is my heart beating so fast?)

S
hould describe what he looks like right now to establish a more exact picture of what is going on.

He’s tucked away in the darker corner of the library, where the World Events and History books are, which students have abandoned in favour of the
internet
. Those books are situated in a little alcove, so he’s hardly noticeable. From his posture, he looks like he’s sleeping, but I can see that dull shine in his one visible blue eye.
His face is mostly covered by a thick cascade of black hair, which falls almost to his shoulders
.

Could
only imagine he had been wearing his clothes for several days. There’s dirt all over his tight white turtleneck, and smudges of rust brown on the sleeves. He’s hunched over against the shelves holding the encyclopaedias, with his arms wrapped around himself like it’s cold. Or he’s ill.  I looked out the window at the summery atmosphere, figuring his chill has nothing to do with the weather.

As I approached him, I also noticed that he was shaking, almost shivering. He really doesn’t look well.

Using the guise of perusing the history books, I flashed him what was described as me ‘dopey but genuine smile’. Terra is powerless to that smile; it puts her in a good mood no matter how angry she might have been. It’s a clumsy brother’s best weapon.

Anyway.

He doesn’t react at all, except to draw
himself
tighter, hiding his bright blue eye from me. He coughed quietly with this movement, his thin shoulders shaking.
Eesh
, he must really be sick.

I knelt down;
don’t think he noticed
me
until I
touched
him on the head.

He jumped so violently that he hit the back of hi
s head on the bookshelf with an
audible ‘thwack’ sound.

Instinctively, I put my hands out to steady him, which apparently was an unwise course of action to take. He cried out, and smacked my hand away, before erupting into an emphatic coughing fit.

R
eally didn’t know what to do.

As the coughing slowed, he seemed to try to speak to me, probably to choke out the aforementioned ‘go away.’

“I’m sorry…” he gasped eventually, beads of sweat dotting his forehead, “Are you hurt? I’m sorry.”

He kept repeating apo
logies, between soft coughs. K
ept my distance, out of concern for his comfort instead of my safety. Now that I was close to him, I could see bruises across his jaw and around his blind eye. Apart from the purplish swelling of the bruises, several cuts sparsely populated his pale thin face, partially healed and glistening. He blinked at me blearily, looking pained and more than a little confused. He was so sick…

I reached for him slowly, my movements careful and deliberate, conveying the message of my lack of hostility. He still flinched at my touch, but relaxed when my movements proved friendly.

Wondered
who beat him up, because it’s obvious someone had. I’m guessing a male, just from his extreme overreaction when I first touched him.

“Are you okay?” I mentally rolled my eyes after asking that. Stupid question, of course he wasn’t okay. “Can you walk? I can take you to the nurses’ station.”

“N-no. They always ask questions…”
his voice escaped through his cut lips like tiny gusts of wind, barely shaping themselves into words.

“You need help.” I maintained, placing both my hands on his shoulders. He looked at me, and I
could
see pure shock on his face, like he can’t believe I said that.