two days after

Alaska. Alaska. Alaska.

I stood in front of the mirror in our crappy bathroom, staring at my chicken legs. I got in the shower, and turned on the shower head which dripped cold water onto my chest.

Alaska. Alaska?

Did anyone ever see it coming? I lathered my hair.

I'm afraid of forgetting her, and I can't decide whether or not that's a good thing. The way she smelled, the color of her eyes. The sway of her generous hips, alluring smile. To numb the pain, or remember the joy?

She's the worst kind of people. The one who tricks you into thinking that you know her, when you really don't. I hate her I hate her I hate her.

Distantly I register the tears on my face mixing with the grey water.

I think about Jake and how they kissed. God, I hate her. Or do I love her? But how could she love me, when I was the one who killed her. I let her go drunk and upset and crying. I set off the fireworks so she could escape. I didn't think about a fucking car crash. She was so alive and vibrant that the very concept of her lying cold on an autopsy table seemed so alien.

I let her go.

As I expressed this thought to the Colonel later on, he seemed to stare at me, mouth partly open, eyes puffy.

"There's no fucking way I'm going to let you take responsibility for all of that shit."

"I let her go."

He scoffed. I slammed the door. I took the cigarettes with me. Outside, the night air was eerie, for it seemed as though the whole school had stopped mid-breath. The moon shined, the swan swam, the cicadas sang their song.

I spoke towards the soft summer breeze – "Alaska, why did you leave?"

The night responded back with the gentle sound of crickets. I lit a cigarette.

I came to Culver Creek to seek a Great Perhaps, and I found, then lost it. Alaska had opened my world up in a multitude of ways, in which I can't even fathom beginning to explain. And somehow, out of seven billion people in the world, she had to be the one to die at the age of seventeen. Was she scared of the cruiser that would smash her body into pieces of tendon, muscle tissue? Did she want to die? Why her? Why not some other random person who I didn't know?

Somewhere between my thoughtless rambling, I started smoking, one cigarette after another, embers tainting my vision a shade of red, the bitter taste of the tobacco biting into the salty tears. When my pack ran out, I climbed up to strawberry hill, in search of more alcohol. Did she kill herself? I dug out the pink wine, drank it from the bottle.

Alaska was fun, and wildly moody. She was a character that captured and captivated you with her impulsiveness, the swing and sway of her words. She was fun and the wholly representation of life. In my eyes, she was perfect. She is perfect.

But perhaps she is the light in the star-drunk sky, and I merely the observer, watching and admiring her beauty from the ground. I could almost hear her whisper, "It's not life or death, the labyrinth."

With this thought I wandered into a state of mind which was both slow and alert at once. The crunch of grass echoed around in my head, as it took me three seconds to register the Colonel, in his five-foot zero glory.

He mumbled a "Sorry," then we passed the bottle back and forth, tilting our heads up to drink to taste the vinegar and maple syrup and strawberries.

"Did I ever tell you that Alaska hid all of my underwear in her roommate's car once?"

"No."

"Well it was fucking hilarious, I swear to god."

I nodded.

"You know Pudge, there's a lot of stuff you don't know about her. Hell, even I don't know what the fuck goes on in her mind."

I fell asleep on the grass that night. I dreamed of kissing her warm lips in the dorm the last night, eyes hinting at secrets and promises. Then suddenly, it melted away to a place lit up by harsh white lights, and I was kissing her cold, dead, unresponsive lips, her eyes focusing on something in the distance. Not on me.

I wonder what she would be like in heaven. I wonder if she made peace with her ghosts back home. I wonder why she was so utterly messed up. I wonder what her last words were. I wonder if she found her great perhaps. Because I lost mine. She deserved hers.

Rationale –

I drew as many parallels as I could in the pastiche, helping readers see closure. The start of Pudge's journey began when he had a shower. Having him reminisce about Alaska in the shower at the end links it back, letting readers compare the old and new version of him. Another parallel I've tried to draw is the pivotal scene where Alaska and Pudge drink pink wine during Thanksgiving, when their romantic feelings for each became obvious. When Pudge thinks that Alaska might be the "star drunk sky, and I merely the observer", it references back to when he "wanted her…beneath the star drunk sky" (pg. 82). In addition to that, I also mentioned Pudge almost hearing Alaska say "It's not life or death, the labyrinth", which was the last conversation they had that night.

In terms of stylistic devices, I incorporated John Green's style, including deep metaphors like "perhaps she is the light in the star-drunk sky, and I merely the observer," emphasizing Pudge's belief in Alaska's perfection. In that section, I also used pink wine as a symbol for Pudge's memories of Alaska. He dug them out, like how he dug out his memories, and shared them with the Colonel the same way he did with Alaska, "passing the bottle back and forth", drawing another parallel. The environment around him is in direct juxtaposition with his conflicted mentality, since the "moon shines," creates peace, contrasting it with his inner turmoil. Sibilance was used to create an image of Pudge's vulnerability, when "he spoke towards the soft summer breeze – "Alaska, why did you leave?""

I chose to rewrite this section of the novel because I wanted Pudge to be in a vacuum where he expressed all his emotions, enhancing the reader's ability to see what he thinks about without external influence. Above all, I feel like Green missed out an opportunity to capitalize on Pudge's emotions, which I was happy to utilize.