While I stared at the wooden door, I thought about a quote from that infamous graffiti artist, Banksy.

“They say you die twice. Once when you stop breathing, and a second time later, when someone says your name for the last time.”

I thought about everything that I had accomplished in my life, the people who had loved me, the placed I’d been and things that I’d seen. My earthly riches and trophies long gone.

A relatively short life, if this was to be it. There’s got to be an old man somewhere out there – a real ancient, old fart – with his letter from the Queen and his papery skin, who is the last living person to remember a whole swathe of people. When he goes down for the final count, it’s not just him, it’s a big cluster that gets forgotten once his impulses and neurons stop firing.

Speaking of, I was surprised that I could still notice anything about this door, especially any new details about the wood grain. This whole experience was starting to make me doubt everything that I thought I knew about what it was to be human. There’s a nick in this door, I think. It’s hard to make out now, my eyes not being what they used to be.

I think one of them has burst.

I had to accept that it was an honour to die before my name did. There were surely some poor and lonely souls that were forgotten before their hearts ceased to beat, but how can we be sure? That’s the very nature of the problem.

IS that a nick on the door?

I can still stare out of my left eye. Chris did hit me quite hard, so I can understand why my right eye would be the first to go.

Also, I think my right hand has come away from the wrist. Hard to tell, time moves so slowly down here. Incredible how my senses still work, even after my brain has ceased to spin electricity and begun to melt. Is this proof of the soul? Pity I can’t tell anyone, six feet underground as I am.

Maybe my infamy will be short-lived. How long can they remember me, really? And if they all forget, will someone come along and read my tombstone, say it aloud and bring me back for a spell?

Maybe they won’t know of my life, or my deeds, or look me up. I hope that will prevent me from seeing the inside of this box again. I hope that, by then, the name Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer won’t mean anything to anyone.