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.
200 Words 