If you're getting this letter, I'm already dead. Either that, or that good for nothing. Dr. Maynard just cheated me a bag of gummy worms to satisfy that sweet tooth of his. But I'm getting away from the point. So here it is: you're the lucky bastard who's getting my heart. Excuse the language, I'm not usually this rash, but hey, what's a dying girl to say? Which brings me to my next question: why do you need a new heart anyways? Were you a murderer in your past life? Do you have a bad soul or something that makes it so that your heart won't work properly? I sure hope not, because if you are a bad person, and you end up getting my heart, I'll haunt you forever. No joke.
But, from the looks of your photo, you don't seem evil. They won't let me meet you because they think we'll get too attached. "They" as in the doctors, which is ironic, because doctors are the last people to know what sympathy is--besides Dr. Maynard, of course. Back to your photo. You look cute. You need a haircut, though--trust me, chicks dig pretty eyes way more than nice hair. And you have a nice smile. It's like a piece of origami.
I know, it's odd hearing that from a girl who's already dead, right? I would know. I've gotten my fair share of letters from dead people; I'm quite popular in the cancer ward, see. Maybe it's because I had my hair for the longest time. Not that my hair was anything amazing. Just your everyday wavy blond-but-not-really locks that went to my shoulders--but never past, because I'd always chop it off in the summer when it got hot. Oh, and if you're worrying right now, don't; the cancer hasn't touched my heart. Again, you lucky bastard.
So about me. Because it's only polite that you get to know me before receiving my most vital organ. My name is Angela Aston--yes, AA--and I'm fifteen (going on sixteen, except not really) years old. To put a cap on your fantasies, because, I'll admit, you getting my heart is a tiny bit romantic, I am not a size two, I don't have hips, double Ds or the type of blue eyes that you'd notice. Instead, I'm broad-shouldered and a bit lanky--well, that was pre-cancer. Now, I'm just anorexic. I have dimples that don't complement my smile and white eyelashes that make me look like an alien. I've got freckles and thin lips that aren't kissable at all--so don't go on thinking anything dirty.
My favorite color is blue.
My parents got divorced when I was four, but it wasn't anything nasty. They still loved each other afterwards--just not the way married couples should. When I got sick, they were both there for me, and for each other--"as friends", they said. It's one of the best things I got out of having a terminal illness--I got to see my parents fall in love again.
That was only a year ago. Before I got sick, I was a normal girl. I watched Dawson's Creek religiously; I drank Starbucks every morning and daydreamed in math. I liked to paint--acrylic, because it made my mistakes harder to see. I also thought the smell of it was intoxicating. I miss it. I miss a lot of smells, actually, having been stuck here for three weeks. I miss the smell of grass--of fresh air, pizza, chlorine and cologne. I miss the smell of my own shampoo in my hair. From when I had hair.
I'm rambling. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I had a nice life, aside from the cancer. I got to do the backyard barbeques with the neighbors and the cute boy who lives down the street; I wore too-high heels to match a too-tall date to homecoming; I've played spin the bottle in upstairs attics, and gotten drunk--once, and only once--at a sixteenth birthday party. I have way more make up than I need (especially now), too many apps on my cell phone, and too many people who love and care for me. I'm not missing out on anything. So don't feel bad, okay? I know that writing this letter to you in the first place seems like a ploy to make you feel guilty, but, from the bottom of my heart (no pun intended), that's not what I'm trying to do. I just want you to know who I am, that's all, because a part of me I hold very dear is soon going to be a part of you.
So take good care of it.
- Angela
Author's Comments:
oh what is it with me.
