Dad was going on and on about the end of times as I sat in the very last row, my head down and doodle drawing while rolling my eyes.
Others were on the edge of their seats taking copious notes, and a small few were doing the pretend to concentrate on your book sleep thing.
All I needed was to hear one more thing about preparing for the new world to have an excuse for using my pen to John Wick my nearest classmates. Why they put me in his class really chuffs me. Surely they know I’ve heard this stuff since my ears were formed in my mom’s womb. I was prepared for insurgents before I could even cry out in fear.
You might remember me. My name is Poppy Taggert.
I’m the one that made the evening news on January 1, 1989, as the first twin born at 12:12 am, to a Mrs. Pruseas Taggert. It was only newsworthy cause I killed her, but my brother lived. Dad kept me but gave him away because he cried too much. Seeing as how the news made me the unofficial cause of her death, I was surprised at his decision, but then again, I still don’t cry.
Happy Birthday to me, however old I am.