Once we were home, I sealed myself off in my tiny room. Forty pairs of eyes stared back at me from my posters of various bands.
Like some naughty child, I thought about what I had done.
I was going to die. Was I sad? No, not then. I was triumphant. Now I could tell everyone that God did exist. I had achieved the impossible, I had saved someone's life with little than an ounce of medical knowledge. I smiled to myself. Dana would survive. Rob would be happy. Rob
I got my phone out.
'Hey, how's Dana?'
The reply came back five minutes later, he was a slow texter, 'She's much better, yeah. Do u wanna come 2 the park?'
'Sorry, I can't. Got other stuff to do.'
He was oblivious, how was I going to tell him? I couldn't, not yet.
Instead, I set to work on my 'other stuff'. From my desk beside me, I took a wad of paper and a pen.
I knew that there would be no way I could express to my friends how much they meant to me, my thoughts had always been clearer when written down on paper.
And so began my death letters.
That evening I must have written thirty to forty letters, my well-practised wrist not even aching.
I wrote one to every one of my friends and the one teacher I loved above all else, Miss Davis. I told them how I had braved each day for them, how I hated to leave them and some general advice. I won't say them, because they are very personal and it would destroy my heart fully.