Know all men by these present that I, Adrien St. Croix, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do make, publish, and declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills made by me at any time heretofore.

This Will is not the standard. This is not the meat of cookie cut legal fodder. No potato, vegetable, or other filler present for my lawyer to consume. This is for you all, my closest comrades, companions, and, dare I say, friends. This will never be seen by anyone. I hope it's never seen by you. But if these words are leaving your lips then I'm afraid that I have fallen on these to say the goodbyes that I may or may not have had the chance to say.

I wish nothing more than to be with you always, to live another day and to breathe another breath of Berlin's exhaust air, but chance has rendered this desire impossible. So here I am in the basement of the shop with this rusty old typewriter. Typing. I can hear you now, Ophelia, with Rowan laughing over your shoulder, that newspaper nit. How old fashioned. You have a computer you know? I knew you'd say it. But there's a reason for everything, my friends, even if it's not clear.

My final wishes are bequeathed as follows:

Should I die with my body intact, I wish the following pieces of my anatomy be divided between my three best friends. To Rowan St. Albans I leave my brain. To Ophelia White I leave my heart. To Gideon De'Canteur I leave my entrails. I do not wish for you to keep these pieces of me-- no, these are not memento mori. I do not wish for you to dwell on the fact that I am dead. I do not wish for you to remember my failures, nor do I wish for you to remember my successes.

I wish for you to consume these pieces and infect yourselves.

For the duration of our friendships, I have been dying. Slowly dying, but dying nonetheless. I recall being asked if I was afraid, if I was angry, and I honestly don't ever remember being so. This sense of impending urgency has, I felt, made me aware of the limited time I was given to accomplish my agenda. In that sense of hurry, I flourished. In that sense of urgency, I went forth.

Without fear. Without anger. Without regret.

Every one of us is dying. Slowly dying, but dying nonetheless. Some of us just go about it quicker than the rest.

We do not have all the time in the world my friends. It is imperative that you understand. I don't want you to die. You'll do that on your own. I want you to live. I want you to take me with you.

If I am consumed by you, I will no longer be a pile of dead flesh, a stack of bones that used to laugh at all those stupid jokes, who cried with you and drank with you and loved with you without judging all the mistakes that made life come to pass. I will be carried in your blood and in the beating of your hearts and in your very eyes to see all the things that happen after my point of expiry. All the things you become. All the things you don't. Please, allow me to breathe with you.

Please, allow me to be with you.

Two years ago, Opie, I didn't trust you. And when you found out about me being sick, you called me a victim. I don't think I ever forgave you. But God did I love you. Even now.

I'm not scared of being alone. I'm not scared of dying. So don't you dare, Ophelia White. Don't you dare, any of you. Don't you dare think that I'm wishing for a second chance in you, because I'm not. Don't you think for a second that this isn't out of love for you. Don't think for a second that I am the victim here. Because I am not a victim. And I am not scared.

Rowan, my friend. You've always known. Seven years, you've always known. I could never have asked for more in a friend. But I'll have you know-- no. No I won't.

<strike>I'm terrified.</strike>

Three years, Gideon. Three years ago when I told you about the disease, you just laughed. I realize now that you understood even before I did. Thank you, for that. Thank you.

Should I die without a full body left behind, I wish that my ashes be drunk over the course of a bottle of tequila. Or maybe several. One evening, without tears but with plans for the future. Maybe plans for a cure. Maybe plans for something less.

With the fulfillment of my final wishes, may no man hold a responsibility to my memory. My beloved friends, my forgery of a family:

I will be with you.

I will be with you always.

Sincerely yours and truly signed,

Adrien St. Croix

PS. I'm sorry if I'm not delicious.