A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

13. Happy Monday

It's been more than twenty-four hours since Number Twelve and Two latched onto Richie and me. Richie decided to time our exposure, beginning when I woke up and discovered Twelve and Two on our backs. There's a timer on his phone he checks frequently.

My condition hasn't improved, which means— I'm dying. Not immediately, but close enough. I wrote a Will with Tristian's help. My clothes will go to Tristian. My graduation gift will be a car that will go to Tristian. My money, guitar, coin collection, and grandmother's jewelry will go to Tristian. I asked Tristian to bury me beside Richie, not George Lucas, though we pray for George's health and career. I don't want George Lucas's burial next to us. I don't know how that would happen, but respectfully no.

Sunday night, I watched four George Lucas films: Red Tails, Raiders of the Lost Ark, American Graffiti, and Star Wars. I chose the Return of the Jedi because I didn't have time to watch the whole saga and rather know the conclusion than a drawn-out story. I told Richie this, and he cried, demanding I watch the first episode so I could fall in love with the franchise as he did.

I've also documented my metamorphosis on my phone because Richie told me to. Richie thinks journaling my moods will lift my spirit since I haven't been eating too well or left my bed this entire weekend. Recording myself doesn't help. Sending them to Richie to watch doesn't help. Nothing is helping me. But I do what Richie says without complaints.

I sit at the desk in my bedroom and press the record button on my phone. I tie my hair into a bun, not caring how I look. I roll the blinds up for natural lighting. I don't care that dirty laundry and empty Hot Cheetos bags lay scattered across my bedroom floor. I don't care that my hair isn't done or moisturized. And I'm wearing the same clothes Number Twelve dressed me in on Saturday. I don't have the energy to try.

Video diary, Anaya Matthews: "Hello," I say to my camera. I always start with a hello, like saying hello matters. I play with the rings on my fingers. I remind myself that these videos are for only Richie and me, so I don't hold anything back.

"I'm not sure what I should say or...why I'm doing this? This is Richie's idea. Umm— I suppose these are my final days. I keep telling myself to be brave and remember that it's not just me. Richie and I are in this together, but I feel sorry for us. We don't know what we're doing, but I hope this isn't the end of my story. I feel like my story just started, transforming into something unpredictable. I don't like the unpredictable part. I don't want to die. Not yet. Or at least for a good reason."

"I think sometimes...Twelve is talking to me— It's a feeling, honestly. I think he's afraid. I think he's scared for me."

"My eyes haven't turned red since Sunday, which is wonderful. I can't hide glowing red eyes. Ummm..."

Richie barges in, "Anaya! You're not doing it right. Talk about your conditions, your mood, and your mindset. God, do I have to do everything for you!" Richie leaves, slamming my door shut. He must be having a bad morning.

I glare at my phone, recording myself. So I say, "I'm dying, so I feel depressed. My condition—I don't care. This is stupid." I turn my phone off and throw it on my bed.

I go into the bathroom Richie and I share at our house in Eugenes. We left Grandpa's yesterday on Sunday, thank the Lord. I don't think I could have spent another day there, talking to Grandpa, pretending to be happy, and Richie wasn't doing any better. He needed to be in his lab. But I thought we were wasting time not asking Grandpa the ever-looming question bubbling in our minds.

That question consumed me. I saw it in the pancakes and nearly burnt bacon Grandpa made us for breakfast. I saw it in the soap I used to clean syrup off our plates. It choked my throat, and I stayed quiet, watching Grandpa scrub mud and dried alcohol out of Tristian's clothes. He smelled her dress and gagged, using half a box of flaky detergent to lift the horrid odor. We said nothing, raking leaves from the dirt path to Grandpa's house as punishment for letting Tristian spend the night without Grandpa's consent. Richie did whimper because he doesn't like manual labor and struggled to carry the heavy trash bags to the dumpster.