(Author's note: this is actually a school assignment {I'm not crazy enough to come up with something like this by myself…}. It's supposed to be sort of based on Frankenstein – which everyone should read because it's actually really good! Anyway… Does this story even make sense? Idk. We'll find out. Enjoy! ~not Ross)

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Reardon,

Remember me? You probably don't. Well, that's okay; I don't blame you.

I hear that your son is about to help the Arizona Cardinals win the Superbowl. Congratulations. I hear that he makes millions of dollars a year and sends a good portion of the money home to you, his loving parents, and that he doesn't even spend the rest of it on steroids – he doesn't need to. Good for him. He's a nice kid, isn't he? So nice, even, that he gave you fifty-yard-line tickets to the big game today. You're waiting for the game to begin right now, eating your popcorn and hot dogs and drinking your cokes (it's good to get back to basics, isn't it?)

Me? Who am I? I'm a no one – literally a no one. I don't exist. I would, though, that's the worst part of it, if it wasn't for you.

You're good people. Some might even call you very good people. You pay your taxes, you have very little credit card debt, you volunteer at your local soup kitchen once a month, you rarely fight, and you even find it somewhere in your hearts to attend church on Christmas Eve and Easter. No one would guess that you're murderers. You murdered me.

Mr. Reardon, you have always loved sports – anything athletic and you'll be in the front row, cheering louder than any other spectator. You used to play, at one point or another, almost every sport imaginable, until a knee injury in your early twenties, right in your prime. It was a horrible accident, I'll admit, and it doesn't take an IQ above 100 to see why you hoped and longed and yearned to have a son who followed in your footsteps – every footstep, that is, until the one that blew out your knee. It's a wish that any father would have. It's a wish that any wife, Mrs. Reardon, would be willing to hope to fulfill.

So what did you do when that man in the white lab coat said that he could guarantee that your wish would come true? "Where do I sign?" It was as easy as all that, and then they turned me, my unborn DNA, into him, the future hero of American Football.

That's not so bad! What could a cluster of embryonic cells have done for the world, anyway? I suppose you'll never know. And I suppose it's not nearly as great as winning the Superbowl. No, nothing could be as great as chucking around a leather lemon, getting famous, getting injured, and then disappearing into an oblivion that hides people behind fortresses made entirely of dollar bills.

I'll tell you what. I'll tell you how boring my life would have been fifteen years after that day in the lab if you hadn't modified me. I'll tell you how the kids would have made fun of me for being such a nerd, how I could barely handle their teasing, how the only way I survived was writing every hurtful word down in a blue notebook hidden and locked away in my bedside table. I'll tell you how you would have worried about me. I'll tell you how I would have kept that notebook and how, last year, I would have recreated my high school life in the pages of a book. I'll tell you how that book would have caught peoples' attention, how it would have affected situations like mine all over the country that's currently gathered around the TV, waiting for the same kick-off that your son is about to give.

Saving the lives of teenagers is nothing compared to winning the biggest football game of the year. Good heavens, no!

You two are sitting in your fifty-yard-line seats digging the last of your popcorn out of the bag. Mr. Reardon, you already finished your coke. People are standing for the national anthem. You'll never hear a word of this, will you? You'll never know, will you? Fair enough. I'll turn to little Patrick Reardon now, then. It's his people who will be paying for your priorities, anyway.

Yours truly,

…but, wait. I don't even have a name.