I find it hard to believe, looking back, that I could ever have wanted this for myself. But I did, and it is for that fact alone that I am still here. Old, but always new. I have lived for a very long time now and I have tired of my existence for the majority of it..
I look in the mirror as I am oft to do. A glance only, but it is enough to tell me what I already know. Nothing ever changes there. I took so much joy in the fact that the years did not touch me in the ways that they do others, when I was younger. I still look young, this is true, but it is certainly not a word I would use to describe myself without adding the word "seeming" to it.
My hair is a very dark brown, worn short and slightly mussed in keeping with the current popular fashion of my apparent generation. My skin is unlined, always tan, and my body is slim, though toned and strong. I don't have to do anything to keep my body fit, although I do, if only for the pleasure it gives me and to pass the time. My height was remarked upon in my early days at 5'8". Back then, I was considered quite tall. Of course now it is only considered average. My mouth is wide, my lips generous and full, and my nose is proportioned well with the rest of my face. When I smile, and I've been told that I have a "killer" smile, my cheeks dimple slightly. My jaw line and fore head give my face a strong appearance. Many over the years have considered my eyes to be my most remarkable feature, a color so dark as to appear black from far off. Looking closer, flecks of a brown, almost honey, color can be seen in the irises. My gaze has always had an intense, penetrating feel that has only grown greater with the passage of time because of the depth added behind them. I appear to be twenty years old, but upon looking into my eyes, most add anywhere from five to ten years to that. I know that I cut a striking figure, though to be honest, it is a fact I have long since taken for granted.
And why shouldn't I take it for granted? I know that regardless of what happens, my appearance will remain basically unchanged. I can cut my hair and it will grow back in the same way that it does for everyone else, but I could stab myself in the heart or slash my wrists open and nothing will happen. As soon as I pull the knife from my chest or when I am done drawing the blade across my arm, the wounds will close as though they never were. If I were to be shot in the head, the bullet will remain there for a moment before my body begins to expel it, and when the bullet is pushed out, the hole will close. All of these things have happened to me, some on more than one occasion. I have even been crucified twice. The short of it is this; I cannot die. Not for any reason, no matter the cause.
Yes, I have tried to kill myself. My first attempt was about eleven hundred years after my birth and my reasons were simple. I had grown tired of the loss associated with my immortality. I only tried once more after that attempt, but as I am not fool, did not attempt it again knowing that it would be futile.
Do not misunderstand, I do not consider myself depressed. No one alive truly knows me well, but the people that I meet and acquaintances would not describe me as a sad person either. Like anyone else, in this respect, I feel the pain more than I do most days and it becomes too much. Now, I just seclude myself until I come out of it. I am not a freak who enjoys inflicting pain upon myself.
I just didn't know it would be like this when I started down this road.
I write all of this now and I honestly do not know why. I do not know who will read it, if anyone even will. I feel a change coming. I feel it strongly and perhaps that is the reason why. Thousands of years have passed since this all began and I have learned to trust strong feelings like this. Or perhaps it is simply because I want to and that has always been reason enough for many of the things I have done.
Over the many years I have accumulated a great deal of wealth. I own many homes and at present I reside in Birmingham, Alabama. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Truthfully, I find that I like it here. The people are polite and I enjoy the weather. I purchased a nice house in a rich little neighborhood. It is not as opulent as many of my other homes, but I like it. My neighbors are nice, not too nosy, and it is close to many nice shopping areas. I have been here for almost five months and, so far, have found little to complain about.
I stand in the magazine section of a Barnes and Noble in one of the aforementioned shopping areas; this one called "The Summit". Why it is called that, I do not know. It is not on a particularly high hill. It has more than a few nice stores and restaurants though. I select a magazine purporting to have the latest gossip on an actress whose work I enjoy and head to the coffee shop section of the bookstore to purchase it and a large soy milk vanilla cappuccino. Caffeine, like many other stimulants, has little to no effect on me, but I enjoy the taste of the drink. Few things have an effect on my system. I can drink a fleet of sailors under the table and I could ingest every cleaner under the average kitchen sink and remain undisturbed. Except for the terrible taste left in my mouth. I was in a weird mood one day and thought it would be amusing to try it. I knew nothing would happen. Well, I figured nothing would happen.
After making my purchase I move out of the way a little so that the next customer may be assisted while I decide what to do. I have been at home alone for the past few days and feel a desire for human contact, so I walk over to one of the remaining tables and sit. It is the weekend after Thanksgiving and many people are out shopping for Christmas, so the bookstore is more than a little crowded. I settle back into the stiff chair that was probably designed to be just comfortable enough to make you want to sit for maybe half an hour but uncomfortable enough to make you want to get up if you stay much longer than that. I begin thumbing through my magazine and sip on my coffee. A few minutes pass and I notice a shadow over the table top.
" Do you mind if I sit here? The rest of the tables are full."
A quick glance around shows me that the tables are indeed full and I look up at the guy. He is well dressed and his voice is kindly, so I nod and give him a brief smile before returning to my magazine. Sharing a table with a stranger is not what I had in mind for human contact, but I see no harm in it and so do not mind.
He puts his coffee and book down on the table and as he sits offers me his hand, "Thanks, man. I'm Shane, by the way."
I set my magazine down, put on a polite smile and take his proffered hand into mine to give it a firm squeeze. I open my mouth to give him a name in return, and as I do, I actually look into his eyes.
His eyes are very blue, a bright color that I can only describe as arctic. They are far from cold though; there is a palpable warmth that radiates from them. Taking in the rest of him, I peg his age to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. He is dressed simply in tan slacks and an open collared blue polo shirt. He is tall, maybe 6'1", and well muscled, not bulky, but athletic. His hairline is receding slightly. Only slightly, but it is still noticeable, and his hair is worn cropped very short. Perhaps he is in the military. He is a very attractive guy, in any case. His eyes are what hold my attention though; they remind me of someone I used to know and care about deeply. Not so much their color as what I see behind them.
I change names like I do clothing and was prepared to give him one of the many that I use. I change my mind though, and give one of my more real names. I've used it many times over the past few decades and I feel like I can call it my own. "I'm Paul. It's a pleasure to meet you, Shane."
"Likewise, Paul. Wow, you have a really strong grip," he says, frowning slightly. He has no idea. I am not a very large guy. I weigh 140 lbs naked but am probably stronger than ten men that are twice my size. I noticed an increase in my physical strength after the change occurred and have only grown stronger over the years. He is not the first to be surprised by how strong I am, though I am usually more careful about showing it.
"Yeah, I'm freakishly strong. Sorry," I chuckle softly.
He smiles, showing a nice row of pearly white teeth. They are likely the product of braces, they are so straight. "Quite all right. I'll just know better than to pick a fight with you." Especially since I would win. "So, where are you from, Paul?"
"I recently moved here from California." Which is true. I still own the Beverly Hills estate, but I needed a change of pace and scenery. Plus, I had lived there for almost twenty years and I did not want my neighbors to become suspicious about my lack of aging. Really, twenty years had been pushing it. I usually change locales every ten years, fifteen at the max. I may return in a few decades. I really enjoyed myself out there. The unapologetic superficiality was rather refreshing. It was nice to always know where I stood. "Is it that obvious that I am not from around here?"
"No, I just thought that I heard an accent when you spoke."
"Really? What accent did you hear?" I ask, genuinely curious. I am a master of accents and can pitch my voice in any manner that I wish, so for him to hear an accent when I do not intend for one to be heard is strange to me.
"French, a little Italian. I don't know, it's kinda hard to pin down because it is not extremely noticeable." I have lived in both countries for extensive periods of time.
"I have traveled around a lot. Maybe that is what you hear," I say.
"Maybe." He looks me up and down briefly, sizing me up.
We spend the next couple of hours talking and exchanging stories. I find that I like Shane a great deal already and, in my mind, we are already friends. The saying that patience is a virtue that increases with age is a load of bullshit. The older I get , the more impatient I become. I want what I want and I want it quickly. It has been the cause of some reckless behavior in the past. Sure, if nothing much is going on, I can just sit and be content. I am not fidgety. I have very few wants these days, but they burn very deeply.
I find out that Shane's last name is Moore. He grew up close to Birmingham, but left for a few years during a stint in the marines after which he decided that was not the lifestyle that he wanted and chose to go to culinary school to become a chef. He moved back and is now a private chef for a wealthy family very close to where I now live. His reason for being in the bookstore today is to find a recipe for duck as they are throwing a large dinner party in a couple of nights. He is unmarried and has a schnauzer named Abe. I find his personality to be endearing. He is thirty one and I can tell that he has been through some grief in his life, but this has not destroyed his playfulness. He has a very easy manner about him. I especially like that he is very direct and open. And his sense of humor, while at odds with my own dry and weary sarcasm, almost has me out of my chair a couple of times with laughter. I very seldom laugh.
I decide to give him as close to the truth as I can manage when I tell him things about myself. The age I give is twenty four and I am an investor. The age is, of course, a lie, but the investor part is true. I have invested the majority of my holdings in several offshore accounts under several false corporations. A brokerage firm in New York handles my accounts and mine alone. I pay them greatly for their loyalty and secrecy. I do not tell him how vast my wealth is. I honestly do not know myself, and really, as long as I am able to stay in the lifestyle that I am accustomed, I do not care. All I do know is that it is in the hundreds of millions range.
