short stories and other things

immortal.

(evan peters does not play the dude in my story. you can imagine him however u want but its not him!)

prompt created by writing-prompt-s on tumblr:

You are an immortal serial killer. You were caught and sentenced to life in prison. The prison is starting to get suspicious of why you won't age.

(mentions death and suicide)

· 1853 words· it's not as long as you think lol·

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my eyes burst open after the first oh-so-familiar clang of the security officers' baton dragging across the gated cells of my section. my section of the maximum security prison, that is. my own personal hell that i called my home, sweet home.

this prison was something like belle reve out of the comics that the original suicide squad stayed in. maximum security, created to hold the worst of the worst. i'd been there so long i'd almost forgotten why i was there. i tried to get it out of my head, i tried to forget, but i couldn't. i had just noticed that i craved the idea of death. not my death, but the death of others. the victims, the officers, the other prisoners, anyone i could get my hands on. maybe that's why i was here.

this part of history was just another game to me. i'd be alive forever. i had to get some fun out of it, right? however, this place was hell and i needed to leave.

i was immortal; that much i remembered. i would always walk this earth, and no one could do anything to stop it, as far as i knew. being injected with whatever they used to kill us at the prison would only knock me out for maybe five minutes. my heart would stop and i'd technically be dead, until my blood was cleansed and i woke up. this is the part that worried me; they'd kill me when it was my turn and i'd just wake up again.

i could break out if i wanted to, really. the only thing that would hinder my escape was that i would be knocked out cold after they either shot me or slammed my head against a wall, depending on the severity of the wound. i'd have to be careful.

i'd been at this prison for ten years, and i'd been moved around from place to place before for another ten. i hadn't aged a day since. i stopped aging at twenty-nine. but i was strong. i'd been dragged to the pits of hell and come back just fine, except for a memory and a scar of every death i've had. faint scars on my chest from wars. a thin line across the front of my throat after being murdered once in chicago. a scar on my foot from a poisonous snake bite. ragged lines on my wrists from having my hands chopped off. (long story.)

one death i couldn't forget was my attempted suicide when i was still growing up back in singapore, my home. my neck ached just thinking about it. i died hanging from a ceiling fan. and then i woke up hanging from a ceiling fan. that's my life.

most people still believe in heaven. they believe in going to a place with eternal happiness and health after death. but the reality was, it didn't exist. i knew it didn't exist. when i died, it was like falling asleep and waking up after a five minute nap. i didn't believe in it because i'd never gone. maybe i couldn't go because i was immortal, because i'd been cursed. maybe i wasn't dead long enough to go. but i didn't believe in it, and i never would.

in that moment, sitting in my cell, i was around one hundred and fifty years old. i lived, fought, and died in the holocaust and world war ii. i'd changed my name and my location hundreds of times. the officers didn't have any of my records, except the ones with my mugshots and my criminal record. they didn't know how old i was, and they didn't question it, but they guessed thirty. to them, i was just another death row inmate.