I am a nameless protagonist.
Nameless, ageless. I won't tell you my name because it'll tell you who I identify myself as, and I won't tell you my last name because it'll tell you where I come from.
Who I am is irrelevant. I could be anybody and I could be everybody.
What makes you unable to relate completely to a story is the fact that, once you close the book and stash it in a bookshelf, you go back to being yourself. You is a person reading a book, and you is not the character of a tale but someone else, someone with a different name and story.
I want you to be me.
I want you to know everything about me, just like you do about yourself.
I want you to listen to the story of your death.

Imagine yourself blindly walking through a corridor, searching for the handle that will lead to the room you must enter. Imagine yourself stumbling, unable to find the single handle that'll let you go into not just any room, but your room. You find a handle. It's cold and chilly, but it y you. You scream in pain, but there is no sound. Your pain is agonizing and only yours. Air is lacking. Your heart squeezes in your chest. You fall to the ground. You're dead.
You wake up sweating from the nightmare.
"Good morning. How did you sleep?" Your mother asks as she comes into your bedroom to take out the laundry. It's all over the floor, or maybe it's in the laundry basket, if you're neat. Maybe it's not your mother or father taking out the laundry, but your grandmother. Maybe they're not taking out the laundry but the garbage.
"Fine." You answer, scratching your head. Maybe, if you're talkative, you elaborate that you had a nightmare. Maybe you don't say anything at all because nobody ever asked you.
"Hurry up and shower; you'll be late for school." Your mother says and leaves the room, clothes in hand. You must get up and shower, even if you're not a high school student but in college, looking for a job; a businessman, in a pension or in jail. All you know is you must get up and get clean.
So you do. If you're a boy you throw some clothes on and go down for breakfast, or maybe skip it and head straight to school. Or, if you're a girl, you take a little more care while shaving your legs, or you have a smaller breakfast while your mom helps you braid your hair.
Time moves quickly. Before you know it, you're at school.
If your school is a rowdy one, everyone is talking, sleeping, sitting on their desks, chewing gum, flirting and laughing. If your school is strict, everyone is probably doing the same thing and are being told off by a teacher. All you know is you gotta do your own thing, be it go hang out with the rest or sit down and get started.
You do your thing.
A smile interrupts your train of thought
"Oh, hey, how are you? Did you do you it yesterday?" This smile can be pretty or dirty, old or young, asking about a homework, document, patient, bingo, exercise or nails. This question is made for you, because the owner of the smile knows who you are and that, yes, indeed you did do that yesterday.
The smile is one of your favorites, or maybe your most hated one.
"I did." You answer, possibly a lie. All you know is you have to keep the conversation going, because it's the only thing you can think of to do. "How about you?"
Class starts. Prisoners are called back to their cells, teachers are warned back to class by a bell, doctors are paged or businessmen called. Your time is interrupted, but the smile remains.
The days are always the same.
You don't mind. It's routine, and routines are good, until you become bored of them. So far, you're not annoyed by what you do five times a week, seven to three. You like knowing what's going to happen, and you like seeing that smile, even if it's only once a week or once a month.
You have a life.
Your life is what you've achieved, or what circumstances got you. You either endure the day or joyfully pass it. Your every day depends on your mood, personality, financial issues, age, gender and expectations. You're happy today despite the nightmare.
Truthfully, it's the first of many nightmares. You're scared, or maybe you don't even remember the dreams. Your heart, though, can feel that something's wrong.
"Hey you!" You hear a familiar voice call out to you as you leave the facilities. You turn around. It's your best friend, if you have one, or a senior waiting to scold you, a nurse taking you back or a guard admonishing a prisoner.
"What's up?"
"Party at my house on Friday. Don't be late."
So you cross the street and you die, while telling your friend you wouldn't dare.
Death could come to you as an accident; you slipped and hit your head, got run over by a car, maybe got stuck in a fire. It could come as murder, or it could come under your own terms, be they old age, heartbreak or despair.
All you do know is that death is certain, and that you'll never see that smile again. The eyes that were always cowardly watching you will never look into your own. The lips you used to kiss are gone. The life you were certain to have or had is gone.
The possibilities are endless.
In the end, you know it's you who's dead, and not me, a nameless protagonist.