He leaned his head back, looking up. “I hate myself I hate myself
I hate this I hate this I disgust myself I hate it I hate it I hate it just let me fucking die.”
According to the conventions of the genre, Augustus Waters kept his sense of humor till the end,
did not for a moment waiver in his courage, and his spirit soared like an indomitable eagle until the world itself could not contain his joyous soul.
But this was the truth, a pitiful boy who desperately wanted not to be pitiful, screaming and crying,
poisoned by an infected G-tube that kept him alive, but not alive enough.
I wiped his chin and grabbed his face in my hands and knelt down close to him so that I could see his eyes, which still lived.
“I’m sorry. I wish it was like that movie, with the Persians and the Spartans.”
“Me too,” he said. “But it isn’t,” I said. “I know,” he said.
“There are no bad guys.” “Yeah.” “Even cancer isn’t a bad guy really: Cancer just wants to be alive.”
“Yeah.” “You’re okay,” I told him. I could hear the sirens.
“Okay,” he said. He was losing consciousness. “Gus, you have to promise not to try this again. I’ll get you cigarettes, okay?”
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