My name is Saviour.

I know that is a stupid name. Believe me I want to change it, and I would if I was 18. On the plus side, my name has meaning. It’s not like Senator Apple Paltrow or Judge North West.

You see, I am the last child born to the human race. Not just the last one born on earth, I am the last one that will be born ever. And with that fateful and frightening reality comes a tremendous burden. Somehow, I am supposed to save the human race.

And I say supposed to because I honestly don’t have a clue as to how to do it. I’m 18, I’m still a kid. What do I know about genetic manipulative therapy. What knowledge do I magically possess about the RT-85 virus that rendered all men sterile, and somehow destroyed the eggs of every single women?

My therapist suggested that I write down what I’m feeling, what I am thinking about. He says that anything that I can do to reduce my stress level would be beneficial, as “stress levels have an impact on your reproductive systems, and we need yours in perfect working order.”

Creepy.

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