My name is, well it doesn’t really matter now does it? You wouldn’t care, it’s not a particularly good name, just plain, unassuming. Pretty much just like me and my parents and my grandparents and on and on through time and generations. A whole family populated by wallflowers with social phobias.
We don’t leave footprints.
We do not matter.
Whether the Mayans’ calender holds true and we are obliterated in a couple years, or we all have to wait until Rapture, one thing is certain.
St. Peter won’t recognize anybody with my last name.
I was always told that I could be anyone I wanted to be, rich, fat, and famous. I just had to work hard. My blood is a composite of generations of non-athletic, scholars who are allergic to hammers.
I am an amalgamation of those who just get by.
I tried for years to get noticed. I was a failed class clown, failed jock.
The only thing I’ve been able to achieve was something five minutes ago. They’ll know my name now.
James Smith, the murderer.