Finifugal (adj.)
hating endings; of someone who tries to avoid or prolonging the final moment of a story, relationship, or some other journey

As a child, I used to cry at the end of every story. Tears cascaded down my face like a waterfall, as my eyes scanned the last page of the book. My hand would shake as I attempted to close the book, the final mark of the end. Sometimes I’d just sit, frozen like that; hand hovering on the half closed book, salty tears splattering down on the pages. My mother would rush into the room, gently prying the book away from my hands. It didn’t matter if the ending was happy, the fact that it was ending was enough to cause a mental breakdown.

It wasn’t only books that would have this effect. I’d turn off movies seconds before the end, never hearing the last words. Music, too. I’d press the stop or skip button just before the last notes rang. I couldn’t bare the finality of such things.

Perhaps I hate endings because I am fearful of my own ending. I am dying. We are all dying, every person in existence, actually. The question is when your death, your ending, will come. For me, it’s soon. Too soon, they say. I’ve heard it all. Such a pity, for a beautiful young girl to die so young.

There is no treatment, no cure. My death is inevitable. And I hate it, I’m scared. I don’t want my book to close, my movie and music to end. What happens after the end? Will I really just cease to exist, be wiped completely from the face of Earth?

But now as I take my last gulps of air, I have a different perspective. It must seem agonizing to others, watching me die. I’d always imagined it being agonizing for myself. Yet it’s painless. The seconds seem to tick by as hours, the clock slowly traveling it’s endless journey - I always loved clocks for that exact reason. As time slowed, I had time to ponder anything, everything.

A nurse, a young woman with enough positive attitude to fill all her patients with overflowing hope, was at my side. It was then that I noticed something on her wrist. A tattoo.Instantly memories flooded through my mind, memories of a familiar man with a similar tattoo. My father. I vividly remember him taking his last breaths, just as I am now.

The nurses tattoo intrigued me, distracted me as I died. I knew the symbol, but it wasn’t something I’d ever really considered. Infinity.

A gulp of air swept into my lungs, my body still determinedly fighting the battle it would not win. As my life ended, I realized I no longer cared. Finality is not a false concept, but it is not accurate either. My life had ended, but it was not over. It would carry on, in the memory of my friends and family. My life would continue to affect others, even if I was no longer living it.

The last thing I saw was a book by my side as I slowly closed it. The pages were unmarked, not a tear in sight. For the first time, I had closed a book with no regret, no fear, no anger. Nothing but peace.