“Yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil...,” the preacher droned on from his place above the open grave. Family and friends gathered around the deceased, each mourning their loss. Although I was present for the same reason, I stood separate from the rest. From my spot under an old maple, I could clearly see people slowly stand to drop flowers down into the grave.
I waited patiently until they had all left before taking my turn. By now, the grave had been filled, fresh dirt creating a slight mound in front of the simple tombstone. Antonio Druthers was inscribed in plain writing. I knelt down, and placed a single long stemmed rose upon the grave. Tucking a long strand of ebony hair behind my ear, I said my farewell.
“Goodbye old friend.” Yet another gone, although I’ll admit this one hurt me more than the rest. Antonio had lived a long life and peacefully slipped away at the age of eighty-five. I had known him sixty-four of those years. I was the one who guided him on how to treat a woman when he met Martha, and shortly after watched as he married her. I was in the waiting room as his children were brought into the world, and later his grandchildren. Of course, none of them knew of me-not even Martha. I’ve grown accustomed to the shadows; find it easier to blend in now.
I was afraid to tell him at first, afraid of his reaction. The few I had told of my condition had not taken it well. But Antonio was different, and I valued our friendship. I knew the time was coming soon, when I would have to pack up and move on again. The hardest part was always leaving behind the few companions I made. I was taking a risk with Antonio, one that proved to work out well.
“I must say...it certainly explains a few things. No wonder you have such ‘old soul’ wisdom.” We had laughed, and then stayed up until four in the morning discussing five hundred years of history. For the first time, I was able to talk with some one of what I had seen. We kept in touch, never letting more than a few years pass before contacting one another.
Of course, it was not always fun and games. In the beginning, I did not fully comprehend what it meant. Eternity is a long time. Hell, I thought the winter months were long, but eternity...
I was originally born during the medieval period, roughly the mid 1400’s. That was a fun century; everywhere you turn someone was being burned at a stake for witchcraft. It is a miracle that I got through it alive. I moved a lot. I would wander from village to village; no one cared as long as I kept moving. I probably circled Europe five times before the plague was through. Herein lies another benefit of my “gift”, I did not have to worry about disease or food. I had long ago lost my hunger; it is not as if I need nourishment to survive.
It was with this realization that it finally sank in; I could not die. The result? Life became a living hell. It literally hurt to live. For a couple decades, I drew in on myself. What was the point of making friends? They would all die. I avoided everything and everyone. I passed through the sixteen and seventeen hundreds like a ghost. Do you know what time is to an immortal? Boring. I lost the drive to live. What goals were there to accomplish? What meaning did my life have? I could easily achieve wealth and power, but to what end? What would it get me? Nothing that would matter. Material items suddenly became meaningless. I did not need food or shelter because I would live on regardless. I wanted to die; I wanted to be able to die.
I tried to kill myself about a million different times. First, I slit my wrists, and watched numbly as the first few drops of blood spilled out, only to draw back into the wound. I spent that entire night digging into my flesh and sobbing, as it would heal perfectly within seconds. I attempted hanging, but after an hour of dangling from the ceiling, I got bored and cut myself down. I even tried drowning, but I just got really prune-y. I have tried every poison imaginable, but they all did nothing. When guns came along, I put a bullet through my head. All that accomplished was making my hair smell like gunpowder for a week. I quit trying after the dreams started. Yes, I still slept although technically I did not need to. The few fleeting hours of rest brought me a type of comfort, when I could completely slip away from the world. The first dream I had I was back in 15th century England, with the witch accusers. I dreamt I was put to the stake and set aflame. Of course, I cannot die, so I would stand there for hours enduring the incessant bites of the fire as it licked its way up my body. It is a strange sensation, pain is. In my mind, I know something is supposed to hurt, but my senses only convey an uncomfortable tingling. I stood there for hours, the fire growing more intense by the second while the crowd stood in shock and fear. Most people accused of witchery were innocent; they had never before seen someone who could not die. So, on top of the fire came the jaunts, jeers, and knowledge that never again would I fit into society.
The eighteen hundreds produced new forms of torture. The Victorian era had hushed whispers of vampires and the undead, thanks largely to Bram Stoker and his novel “Dracula.” I went from witch to vampire. Now the dreams consisted of being buried alive. Usually, I was in a coffin six feet under. No light or sound, the plush padding of the coffin was a cruel mockery of comfort. I would claw at it; ripping the cloth material until I hit wood. My hands splintered and bloody then grasped at dirt as I broke through, bringing a whole new wave of problems. As the dirt fell down into the coffin with me, I realized I was not strong enough to dig my way through to the surface. Six feet of dirt is a lot of weight. Claustrophobia sets in about then, and I panic while gasping for air I do not need. Of course with dirt come worms, mistaking my body for another deceased corpse. Waking from those dreams was often followed by hours of scrubbing at my skin, trying to get the feeling of slime and dirt off.
Finally, in 1902, life started to become bearable. I was drifting from town to town, as usual, in Southern France. It was there that I met a young girl stricken with polio. She was amazingly cheerful as well as insightful. Quite a contrasting picture we made; the girl who could not die with the girl who would not live. Despite the hardships she faced, young Sennett had no qualms with her fate. I met her in the hospital were she was spending her final days. I originally came to visit another friend, but when I saw the golden curled child sitting in the gardens, my interests shifted. She was sitting in her wheelchair staring at a small section of flowers. I guess I was not as sneaky as I thought because she started to speak with me, or so I assume. We were the only ones in the gardens.
“Bee’s are fascinating creatures, aren’t they?” she asked in perfect French. “Though they have very short life spans, they work very hard to insure the safety of the hive,” she smiled at me, a knowing twinkle in her eye. Yes, children are very insightful. She may not have known of my curse, but she did know I needed help. I sat beside her on the grass, paying no mind to the stains I was sure to get on my white, Paquin dress. We talked for quite a while, speaking of everything and nothing. She told me of her disease, a cheery smile upon her face the entire time, and I told her of my travels, swearing to bring her the latest fashions of Paris the next time I went. I said farewell as the nurse came to take her back up to her room.
That night I took a train to Paris, spent three days finding the most stunning gowns and bonnets I could, before returning to the small hospital. I knew from the pained face of Sennett’s mother that I had barely made it. My heart broke as I walked into the room. The young girl, who I had quickly come to see as a sister, lay broken and weak in the bed. Steeling myself, I brought in the large boxes and set them down on a table against the window.
“I brought you a present, cher,” she smiled warmly at the endearment.
“Merci,” she motioned for me to sit alongside her bed.
“How do you do it, Ms. Goldie locks? How do you continue to smile?” she laughed at the nickname, and then motioned me closer to whisper in my ear.
“The secret to life is to find something that is not only worth fighting for, but living for as well.” The nurses ushered me out, declaring the young girl needed her rest. Sennett past away two days later. Although I mourned the loss of a friend, I cherished the wisdom she taught me and took it straight to heart. I walked out of the hospital that day and laughed at the irony of the situation; leave it to an immortal to find hope amongst the dieing.
I started to build an empire, one that was conservative, but massive nonetheless. I wrote a few historical novels, assisted on archeological digs, and corrected the myths of legend. I should know- I had lived it all in any case. With all of this came wealth and a nice selection of resourceful connections. Naturally, I kept it all very low key. Most of my workings were underground; allowing the mortals to go on assuming everything was fine in their narrow world of beliefs. I was not about to go around advertising my curse. That would only land me in some government institute being probed at for eternity. Besides, I had found something worth fighting for. There was once a time when I had many friends, all of which I loved dearly. I decided I owed it to them to watch over and protect their descendants, much like I have done with Antonio’s children. I hope that the knowledge that if any of his children need help, I am there, will allow him to rest in peace. And that is how I spend my days, carefully guarding over my extended family. Should they ever need a loan, or help with the government or anything really, a letter will mysteriously show up in the mail, or the bill collectors will start to disappear. What better way is there to use the connections I have acquired?
Life is no longer a curse. Amazing what a little purpose can do for a person. I once read that the mark of an immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one; J.D. Salinger was a very smart man. It was as an immature little girl that my curse came about. I thought I was being brave, selling my soul to save the man I loved. Of course, my knight in shining armor was in love with the milkmaid down the road and died of plague anyway, but that is beside the point. My fate was sealed, and I paid the price. The deal was simple, my soul for my love’s life. What a foolish girl I was, making a pack with the grim reaper should be obviously stupid. I learned my lesson, albeit the hard way, and now have eternity to make up for it. Do you know what eternity is to an immortal? The answer is an opportunity to make things better, even if the rest of the world can never know. It goes beyond glory and fame; those things are meaningless to one that cannot die. That is what I am- an immortal. I will live on regardless, until the god’s take mercy on my soul. My greatest fear now rests in the chance that this gift will go wasted.
Water ran down my face and I realized that during my reflection it had started to rain. I straightened my black skirt from when I knelt to place the flower, gave a final goodbye and headed back to the car. Once safely inside the limousine, I picked up the days paper as the driver took off. The front page read, “Druthers’ son in trouble with Italian Government.” Antonio was very successful in life; his children always got a lot of media attention. Although I must say, they do bring it on themselves. Nevertheless, it would appear as though I am going to Italy.
