Chapter 1
I didn‘t sell my soul. I don’t practice black magic. I didn’t come across a genie, or fairy godmother, or a magic fountain. I am just this way. I wish I could tell you why; but maybe it is best unsaid. It’s dangerous for people to know how to have eternal life. Not that I know for certain that that is what this is. For all I know, I just age inhumanly slow. But that’s a mouthful. It’s easier to say that I am, more or less, immortal. Of course, I didn’t realize that at first.
The first thirty-four years of my life were completely normal, it wasn't until I was around my mid-fifties that I figured I have the gift of longevity. After all I didn't look a day over thirty; not to say that I look any older today. My grandparents came to America and settled in Massachusetts in the late 19th century. They were able to get their hands on some land, which remained with my family for generations. I grew up with two other brothers and one sister, but she, sadly, passed on when she was about eleven when she got pneumonia. My younger brother, Edmond, was only six when she died, so he never did remember much about her. Charley and I were more heartbroken. She was the most lovable thing you ever saw. She was a witty girl, with a very independent mind. Sometimes it would get her in trouble, but when it did, it made the best stories. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help favoring her over my other siblings. I suppose that’s why her memory is still vivid to me. My mother seemed to take it the hardest, though. She once confided in me that she had always wanted a daughter. Nothing could have prepared her for it, anyways. No parent should outlive their child.
So, naturally, after she died, things just didn’t feel the same in the family. The hardest part, for me anyways, wasn’t the initial grieving; it was the memory. The little reminders scattered throughout the day. The empty chair at the dinner table or her favorite book lying around (Edmond had similar literary tastes). She didn’t really care much for reading, but my mother made sure she could. She made sure we all could. That was probably the most painful reminder. Watching my mother teach Edmond how to read. Things like that kept her memory alive.
Eventually, though, you learn to accept the tragedy. So that is what we did, we had to. Years pass, and other things preoccupy you… life goes on. A wound is sore for a while, but it heals, even if it leaves a scar. I’ve become quite efficient at healing these wounds over time. At least, that’s the way I like to phrase it. "Desensitized" is probably a better word, but that makes me feel like I’m losing my humanity. Even though desensitization is a product of humanity. We are extremely adaptable creatures by nature; to climates, terrains, social conditions and even the presence of death. At one point I started to become more facisnated than sad from it, I hate to admit.
I want to think it is reasonable seeing as how I have had 209 years to observe death through everyone around me. Death is the ultimate consequence; the thing we all procrastinate dealing with. People tell scary stories about it, people make products to avoid it, people make businesses dealing with its ceremonies. All men fear it, all men face it. Men have made millions of dollars by delaying it. I grew up feeling all the same feelings as the rest of mankind. After a while though, after thinking it through a thousand times, it becomes more of an abstract phenomena than something to fear. I am especially consumed with death, seeing as how it is the one thing that defines me. I have been left in death’s wake. I have been left, and I wondered why. For years it ate away at me, but the urgency of the question faded. Over time you learn to accept that there are some things that you just won’t ever know.
I decided to lock the question away and enjoy life.
