My Immortal

Struck

1993

        It’s hard being immortal.

        Everybody seems enamored with the thought of being able to live forever. Never growing old, having a lot of time on your hands—it seems like the perfect life. It seems like everybody likes the idea of it.

       But not me.

     My name is Harry Styles, and I am immortal. I was born in the early 1920s, a time when women dressed in fringe and sparkles while men wore dapper tuxedos, when culture and music were at their peak and the economy was booming. I was happy. My family was quite wealthy and affluent, always mentioned in the newspapers and invited to the most glamorous parties, and unlike most others, my parents actually gave time to raise me and my sister well. When I made my social debut everybody accepted me willingly and I became a rising star, even found myself some passionate, however short-lived, romances. My parents provided me with the best education, made sure I wore the finest clothing, gave me everything I could possibly want and more. I was happy. Truly happy.

        Then everything fell apart.

        It has been more than a hundred years, and even until now it is uneasy for me to speak, even think, of what happened that led to this damned life. Out of the many people I have met, none of them have even an inkling of my past. In fact, none of them know that I have lived hundreds of years. Nobody knows. It’s hard, but I like it this way. The walls I had put up around myself could not be taken down by anybody, but I do not care. Everything is easier this way.

          I put down my glass a bit roughly, some the deep-colored wine spilling onto the shiny mahogany tabletop. A little drunk, I looked around at the den of the mansion that has provided a home to me for almost a decade now. The tables, doors and fireplace were made out of shiny wood, heavy velvet curtains drape the windows, and the room was lit dimly by a warm fire. The bar I was sitting at contained an array of various fancy wines I had collected from the many places I had visited.

            This has become my life now—drinking, staring into space, a little more drinking. On some days when I feel like doing sensible things I read, or watch TV, or drive around the neighbourhood. Most days are spent like this. Pathetic way to live, I know.

            “Are you alright, Sir?” a gentle voice said from behind me.

            I turned around. It was Helene, my housekeeper and the only person in the world who knows me, who has spent her entire life taking care of me. A look of worry that I have grown so familiar to was on her aged face. I smiled briefly.

            “Just a typical day, Helene,” I replied, taking a sip of my sauvignon blanc.

            “It’s a beautiful day outside,” she said, walking slowly towards me. “Why don’t you get out of here for a bit? Go for a short walk? Get some fresh air?”

            I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

            “You can’t keep yourself prisoner in this house, Harry.” That gentle, worried expression was still in her eyes. “Enjoy the sun. Get a breath of fresh air. It might even be good for you.”

            “I’m doing quite fine in here, Helene, thank you very much.” I toyed with the glass of wine in my hand.

            She took the glass away from me and hid it behind her back. “Do me a favour, Harold, and live life. Enjoy the outdoors.”

            I looked away at the name she had called me, trying to ignore the pang of pain it caused in my heart. “Don’t… don’t call me that,” I whispered roughly.