Letters to Augustus - Part 5

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Dearest Augustus,

Isaac's funeral is tomorrow. I can't go.

They've asked me to prepare a eulogy. I can't do that. Not again. It was difficult enough at your funeral. Now I've lost my best friend too, and I can feel my whole world crumbling beneath my feet. What do people in films usually do when the ground starts cracking beneath their feet? They run. And I must do the same.

Yesterday I visited Annie, who was staying at her uncle's house whilst her parents were in Canada doing god knows what. Upon arriving at Annie's uncle's house, I discovered the old swing set sitting broken and unused in the backyard. The pedophile swing. The swing which was supposed to get his kids to go outside (and had failed, I noticed, as they were sitting indoors playing The Last Of Us, which, frankly, isn't that bad a game). It reminded me of you. It reminded me of us.

I have stopped reading An Imperial Affliction. I can't read a book and know that the author is, in reality, a drunken douchebag (I realize that his daughter died, but he was totally douchey to you in Amsterdam and that is an unforgivable sin. No one messes with my Gus). I donated it to the local library.

I went in for a general check-up yesterday. The Phalanxifor has stopped working. The tumors are not staying shrunk. I'm dying, Augustus. I'm becoming the grenade I never wanted to be. But there's nothing I can do about it. There is one up-side to dying, though.

I'll be with you. And Isaac. We can have a party.

So long and good night, Augustus.

Hazel

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