I open my eyes one last time. This will be my last day on Earth, and I’ve come to terms with it. My family, well they’re shattered, but that’s expected. At night I can hear my mom sobbing into my bed and even my dog, Gus, gives me those heartbroken eyes. I think he can see Death coming for me. Heck, maybe he can even smell it.

The Nurse comes into my room for the last time and changes my IV, it’s the only thing keeping me alive. I pull out my cellphone and schedule one text to send out at midnight: ‘I love you all so much.’ It’s not much of a last rite, but hey, it’s mine.

And because I’m a seventeen year old girl, I pull myself out of bed, put on my platinum blond wig, and take mirror pictures. Then, I stare at them for 20 minutes and find the best one. Last, I post them to Instagram with the caption: ‘Bouta be an Angel.’

If I don’t laugh at myself I think I’d cry.

My family comes into the hospital room not long after I make my Instagram post. My older brother, Grant, comes in with his jaw dropped and his phone in his hands. A smirk creeps onto the corner of my mouth and I wait for him to speak.

He races to my side and pushes his phone into my face, “What is this?! Dude you’re sick!” Offense and a touch of laughter stain his voice. I shrug, “If I can’t laugh then no one can!” He rolls his eyes and takes his usual seat at by the small TV in the corner of the hospital.

My mom, Jocelyn Turner, could barely bring herself to look me in the eye. I don’t blame her, I look a wreck. Those nights at my bed when I was throwing up until 3 in the morning are catching up with her. She’s been strong for entirely too long. After I die, I want her to have a good cry about me, and then move on. There’s no reason I should hang over my families head like a ghost.

I make a mental note to tell her not to cry over Angelica Turner anymore. She holds my hand and sits next to my right side. That’s the hand she likes the best, especially since my other one only has three fingers on them. I call it my dinosaur claw. No pinky, no thumb

My dad comes in last and when he does, it hits me right in the gut. He’s wrecked worse than mom is. His hair is patchy and most of it is fallen out, he’s lost at least 20 pounds, and his eyes are just dull. They match mine.

Suddenly, I feel like the crappiest person in the world. His daughter is dying and I’m making jokes. Now, I suddenly want to live and I want to fight. I can’t leave my Dad like this.

I rake over my phone with my fingers and try to force the compulsion to delete my post down. It eventually passes.

I spend the rest of my last day eating smuggled junk food, playing Jenga, and having one last family dinner. My dinner was special because they broke me out of the hospital, and that fresh air felt good. Being alive felt good. Until a massive wave of nausea hit me and made me throw up so much I wanted to die again.

Now, I’m back in my bed.

My bones ache, my head is pounding, and I feel weak. My body is a prison and I want to be free. I say goodbye to Grant first, he and I do out secret handshake. For a split-second I swear a tear falls from his face, but then he slips back to his couch. I say goodbye to my mom next. She holds her tears in her eyes and her cheeks turn rosy red. She rubs her favorite hand and takes one step back. She falls to her knees but Grant catches her and pulls her out into the hallway. Last, I say goodbye to my Dad. His hands are shaking slightly as he pulls me into his chest. His heart is pounding deathly slow.

After I say my goodbyes, I pray. Not for me, but for them. I was a lost cause—a passenger on a train with a one way ticket. But they had much longer here than me.

A few hours later, I saw Death. He was beautiful and kind, his smile lit up the room, and he held out his hand for me.

And I took it.

Freedom.