The Incorrigible Will

Whenever people hear the word “will”, they imagine a sickly old man with watery eyes and pipes coming out of his nose and maybe his mouth. Purple blotches marr the wrinkled skin on his boney hands with yellow nails. He gurgles in the back of his throat, before coughing onto his hospital gown and putting the curse of God on his money-lusting family. He dies on a pile of billions in a marble mansion filled with Van Gogh and the sort, a pretty nurse packing her belongings after cleaning him day in and day out, and the attorney talking courage into himself before facing the mourning family with the will.

Fine. Maybe it’s just me, not all people. But that’s what I see when I think about writing my will. And I can’t help comparing myself with that man without grimacing. Now, before your imagination runs away with you, I am not dying. Yet. I will of course die one day, but for now, as a 20-year-old girl, I would like to believe I am not waltzing with the Angel of Death into the sunset. I have decided, however, that I do need a will in case I trip over my feet and fall into a pit of flesh-eating rabbits, or get struck by lightning tomorrow. But, like I do everything else in my life, it should be with a dash of romance and flair of tragedy. When my will has been read, all present should feel such immense despair it would seem as if they found out the world is going up in flames. Stricken horror should paint their faces. The old ladies should need their smelling salts. The black sheep should be calling for champagne. The children should feel robbed. The men should scream at the sweating attorney and their wives should call “Doom!” in the streets as they tear their black robes. The world shall end with an incorrigible will.

But how to infuriate a family of loved ones when I’m as broke as the humble bloke begging on the street corner?

The Last Will and Testament of Becky Cooper

Hereby I revoke, annul, and cancel all previous wills made by me.

The previous will was written by the 12-year-old version of me. She delegated my cabbage patch doll to my older sister and the celery leaf crown I won at an ancient Olympic game to my cousin. The doll is currently buried in the garden of our previous home after suffering severe burn damage when she sacrificed herself for her beloved to be spared. You should’ve seen the funeral. My aunt threw out the crown a week after I wrote that will.

My first dying wish:

I wish to have that of a Viking's death. 

Oh! The horror! My family (every. single. one. of. them.) will hike up a dangerous mountain where the eagles of the Vikings rule. At the top, they will leave my decomposing body on the rocky expanse for the eagles to feast upon. If these instructions are not followed exactly as demanded, I will come back from the dead to haunt the last days of their lives, tormenting gray pigment into their hair follicles. Do not feed me to the thirsty tongues of fire! Do not bury me in the carcass of a murdered tree!

My second dying wish: 

All the money in everyone's bank accounts should be drawn and strewn from where I drew my last breath to the graveyard. 

You all want me to marry for riches? You want me to slave in a job where I detest myself? You love money more than the people around you? Throw it on the road and see where that road will take you! 

Pencil note: To be continued when I have another horrific idea …

***

“Rebecca Cooper! Is it your sole purpose in life to disgrace your family?” Aunt Meg shriek as I walk into the kitchen after my shift at the diner, dressed in a frilly waitress dress. “I found this while I was cleaning your room!” You know how every town has that one woman who dirties up her nose in everyone’s business?

“I don’t know, Aunt Meg. What ghastly treasure did you unearth while you were snooping … I mean, cleaning?” I turn my back on her as I reheat the cold dinner. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I should include something that will suck out her soul in my will.

“Maybe I should just send you to a psychiatric hospital. There has to be something mentally wrong with you to write such things!” I look at the white pages she’s shaking in front of my face - The Last Will and Testament of Becky Cooper. Oh. That makes sense. I should definitely orchestrate her death in it.

“What on earth is that, Aunt Meg?” I ask with an accurate imitation of shock and innocence, I’m proud to say.

“You want to tell me you did not write this?” No, I definitely did, Aunt Meg. You should not ask stupid questions. I take the pages from her, gasping as I read the written insanities.

“I’ve been framed, Aunt Meg,” I scream as I start tearing up the pages, “You have to believe me! I would never!” I drop the torn pieces, count to 3, and wail. Grandpa Jack limps in and looks accusingly at Aunt Meg. I grab his leather jacket to pull him closer. He folds his arms around me as I start sobbing louder.

“You two are the spawn of the devil!” she yells before leaving the kitchen. I give another loud wail for good measure, then push Grandpa Jack away. I grin at him as I hand him a copy of the will I carry with me. That should explain everything effectively. I take a bite of the dinner. Lukewarm. Yuck. Aunt Meg spoils everything.

“It’s a pity I’m going to die before you, Bec,” he laughs, the gold tooth blinking under the fluorescent lights. I’m 95% certain that Grandpa Jack is a retired pirate. He is blind in one eye and his left leg has been scarred ever since I knew him. Before I was born, he disappeared for almost twenty years and no one knows to this day where he has been. Shortly, after my birth, he came back to help raise me after my parents’ death.

“No, you’re not. You are going to live forever.” At least long enough to make my third dying wish come true.

“Don’t allow anyone to take that wonderful imagination away from you. Or make you believe it’s wrong somehow,” he says as he leans forward, “You live in a world of color where anything is possible. People like Meg has nothing but greys. I’m proud to be called your grandfather. Like Einstein said, 'The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.'” I allow the wicked smile to grow as I see the same light shining from his eyes as I know shines from mine.

My third dying wish:

Pirate Captain Jack should force Meg Cooper to walk the plank in shark-infested waters. 

Signed - 01/09/2020 - B. Cooper