Seven Lists

Here it was, the last item on the list. The last item on the last list. Six lists were plastered to the wall in my single bedroom flat, surrounded by photos documenting my feats. And then there was this one in my hand. One last item and then I could die knowing I had completed the hardest list yet.

I looked around at the tourists below me. They were about to witness the closing act of the show. I had done so much: kicked a bucket off the top of Buckingham Palace, shave off Mick Jagger’s eyebrows, I’d even had a family. Not for long, they were all gone now. Gone with the end of the fifth list.

Butterflies flickered in my stomach. I had no idea why I was so nervous. In all my 350 items I had never once been afraid. The clock behind me chimed seven times and then I took a step forward and felt the air whip my hair up above me. And as I fell a quiet settled over me and I felt utterly at peace.

The last item torn off the last Bucket List drifted slowly from my hands, never to be checked off.

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