The Immortal

I’m so tired. Every day I ponder why I choose to rise. I should just remain lying in the dust in these rags.

I am so old, and tired. I am a wrinkled prune, a desiccated bag of skin and bone and fat and muscle turning to dust. I am wrinkle upon wrinkle, and the parts of me that aren’t drying out and wrinkling are scars.

They add up over time. Cut after cut. A bump here, a bruise there, a laceration; what the practitioners of medicine will never tell you, and have never once told me, ever, over these thousands of years, is that when your body heals from an injury it is never quite the same as it was before.

I’ve shattered every bone in my body at one point or another. My femur, from the swing of a barbarian’s cudgel, so many hundreds of years ago in Gaul, while I was fighting for Caesar. My back, when fell from the roof of The Waldorf that New Year’s Eve in ’23. Both my collarbones (a mule and a jealous lover). Every finger of my right hand when they tortured me for being a heretic in Italy. Every finger of my left from the boxing match in Singapore.

I’m just so tired. I never thought I would be this way. Old, and broken, forever.

When he offered me eternal life, I’d just assumed he meant eternal youth as well.

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