Death and Life (And Then Death Again)

Prologue

 A long time ago, I was dead.

Not in a metaphorical way, but in a physical way. I was, and technically still am, dead. But now I'm not? I guess you could call me a zombie, but that's not entirely accurate. I can't die, like zombies can. Hit me in the head with a shovel or hatchet, and I'll definitely feel it, and I'll probably scream in pain, and possibly pass out, but I won't die. Broken bones pop back into place, scars and cuts heal, and any organ failures do nothing, except start working again after time.

It's hell.

I have been alive for around 500 years now, and it sucks. Fortunately, I still look like I'm in my 20s (thank goodness. Can you imagine what a 500+ year old woman would look like? Yikes), but that doesn't really help. It was fun at first, I will admit. I would scare the people in the local villages around me, pretending to be a ghost, but eventually, they started retaliating, and that wasn't fun. Fun fact: pitchforks hurt. A lot. And after 500 years of seeing anything I could possibly see, I got sick of it. I started to crave death. I wanted to finally end it. The pain of seeing people die. The torment of knowing you won't see them again. It kills you. I started over-drinking, driving super fast, anything I could think of that might possibly kill me. I guess that's how I met him.

I was extremely intoxicated, and driving down an old back-road on my motorcycle in the middle of the night, and going about 80 miles per hour. I had started going around a curve, when I jerked my handlebars, and drove off-road, into a tree. 

I woke up a couple hours later, with many broken bones, but still alive. I'm sure I was in a lot of pain, but there was too much alcohol in me to really notice any of it. I had started popping bones back into place, when I glanced around. Effects of the crash: my motorcycle was completely totaled, and the tree I had hit was on the brink of falling over on top of me. 

And then there was him.

I have no idea how long the man had been there. I just knew there was something off about him. I knew he couldn't have been a person driving by that had noticed me: there were no cars nearby. He didn't have a backpack or bag with him, so I doubted he had been hiking out in the wilderness. And I also knew that most people would've run away if they had seen a person pop their head back into place.

He didn't really say anything, except ask me if I was okay. I didn't really respond; just continued to pop bones back into place, and wiping blood off of myself. The man came over and handed me some towels, and helped me move body parts back to their rightful positions. When everything was back in order, he helped me stand up. That was when I actually looked into his eyes.

They were pitch black.

At first I thought I was seeing things. I mean, A, it was dark outside, and B, I was drunk.

The man finally introduced himself. He said his name was Jerome, and that he was a demon from Hell. 

After that night, that was when my life got better.

I fell in love.