September 21st, 1843

Today is my thirteenth birthday.

I celebrated it by learning that I am soon to die.

Mother Narcissa says I do not have much time left. She is not sure what is slowly killing me, whether it is malnutrition or the disease or both, but whatever it is, she has no immediate cure.

She and Father Marcus sit by my side now, praying. But I know what they do not want to admit — that however much they plead God for me to stay, He will take me home soon. Maybe it is a blessing — no, it is a blessing. I will see my family again.

Someone told me once that what a person does and says as they linger above death tells what he has wished or strived for in life. If this is true, then I have no words. I was born, I lived, I grew, and now I will join those who lie beneath the roadside crosses. I have nothing to strive for, no one to say goodbye to except the two who sit by my side. Anyone else I loved is dead.

Death is something that many people fear.

I wonder about this now, because as my hand grows shakier and my breath fainter, I feel no fear at all.

I am sorry that this story is like crap.

I just dug it out of my folder and my sister forced me to post it because it had made her cry.