Dear Planet Earth,
Well, here I am. Itâ€™s anybodyâ€™s guess as to how long.Â Theyâ€˜re telling me to write, to tell my story, busy myself and the rest of the world with the cold, hard facts to prove that theyâ€™ll get each and every one of us eventually.
I resisted at first, spat in their faces. I pretended to be the tough guy for two long days, but what does it really matter now? If Iâ€™m dead, Iâ€™m dead, and it wonâ€™t change anything to anyone if I retell what happened or not. Iâ€™m doing this now to be remembered. Iâ€™ve realized now thatâ€™s whatâ€™s been driving me fromÂ the very beginning. All Iâ€™ve ever wanted was for people to recognize my existence, be it in a positive or a negative light. And I donâ€™t care if that sounds selfish now. I donâ€™t care about humility, or pride, or any other quality I once thought made us human. I only care about being remembered.
Iâ€™m going to take my time with this. God knows they are. They keep saying itâ€™ll be at least a week before â€œThe Big Guyâ€ comes. Iâ€™m trying to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that might understand what that means.
It all started the day afterÂ I killed Jennifer Lopez. I couldnâ€™t find my netbook in the morning.Â Halston, Linares, and Karter sat me down with the most serious faces. They asked if I knew where all the weapons had gone, if I heard the truck leaving last night. I sat open-mouthed, thinking a hundred different thoughts at once. Then Maria barged in and said they were gone. Mrs. Bing, Mr. Ozawa, Randall, Rachel. They were all gone.
Follow the mole men invasion at Beneath Average