Fiction Fragment Friday
This is a story strong enough to stand on it’s own. It started with the examination of a phrase and took on a life of it’s own. Quite a rollercoaster much like life in general.
I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions, but I have had a few weeks off to think about things and assess some priorities in life. I hope that will mean better focus on health and following through with creative endeavors. Only time will tell.
“New Year, New Me,” I say, standing in front of a full-length mirror.
For most people, the phrase is one of personal affirmation, but for me it is a weary resignation. When I say it, I’m not trying to improve myself. I am giving up my old identity and preparing to start a new one.
This is one of the many drawbacks of being essentially immortal. You can only stay in one place so long before people can no longer ignore your lack of aging. They don’t want to believe it at first, so they make excuses for you. It takes far longer than a person might expect, but eventually the truth refuses to be ignored. It is best if I leave before that happens.
I’ve learned a few tricks over the years to stretch out how long I can hold on to an identity. I start clean-shaven and grow a beard as time goes on. Beards always make me look older, giving the illusion of aging. Changes in clothing and adding glasses can help as well. They’re only delaying tactics at best, though.
It helps to avoid pictures as much as possible. That used to be easy, but these days when everyone carries a camera in their pocket, it’s become complicated. People look at me like I’m contagious when I tell them I don’t have social media. It’s the same look employers give me when I don’t participate in retirement accounts that I know I’ll never be able to access.
As time goes on and technology evolves, creating new identities is becoming more difficult. Databases of fingerprints, social security requirements, and background checks are making it harder to exist without a real documented past. For the first time in my very long life, I’m terrified that the trend might make it impossible to continue after this identity.
The most difficult part mentally is giving up everything I’ve built and starting over as the new guy. Leaving behind everyone I’ve grown to care about every decade or two guarantees a constant state of loneliness. At the beginning of each new identity, I’m guarded. I swear I won’t let anyone get close again. Inevitably though, people wear down my walls. I let them in, but part of me will always be closed off because I know it will all have to end.
“I don’t want to do this again,” I say. My eyes in the mirror are watering.
“Then don’t.” I hear her voice behind me, and it feels like my heart is being ripped from my chest.
“You don’t understand.”
“That you were just going to leave without saying goodbye? You’re damn right I don’t understand how you could do that. It’s not happening though.”
I’m taken aback by the anger in her voice. It isn’t unexpected, but it still surprises me every time. She isn’t the first person to confront me as I try to leave.
“I have to…”
“No, you don’t.”
She is yelling, but I’m more startled by the folder she throws at my feet than her words. It spills open, sending images across the floor. Some of them are pictures, some are paintings, but all of them are of me living lives I’ve shed.
“I can explain.”
“Yes, you can,” she says. “But you won’t. You’re getting ready to lie to me. Well, don’t.”
She gestures towards the images. “Those aren’t relatives or people who look like you. For just once in our relationship, why don’t you try telling me the truth?”
She looks at me then. Really looks at me. Like her eyes are staring into my very soul. “Do you even know how to do that anymore?”
“How,” I ask as I gather the contents of the folder. My instincts are screaming to destroy them, but it’s far too late for that.
“You’re not as good as you think you are,” she says. “And maybe I have a few secrets of my own.”
“If you know, then you must see why I have to go,” I plead.
She scoffs. “There you go again. Assuming you know better than everyone else. Were you always an egotistical ass, or did that come with age?”
“A bit of both,” I say, my tone light, trying to defuse the situation.
“Oh no, you don’t get to joke your way out of this one. If you’re going-”
She punctuates her next words by poking me in the chest with each one.
“I’m going with you.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say, and I hate how whiny my voice sounds.
“I’m pregnant.”
It feels like the world drops out from under me. I had given up the dream of being a parent a very long time ago. Would a child be immortal like I am, or would I have to watch them grow old and die?
In that moment, I’m confronted with a sobering realization. I run not only to avoid discovery, but to protect myself from watching the people I care about die.
I am a coward, but there are some things even I can’t run from.
“Really?” I ask.
“Really,” she replies, her tone softer now, more vulnerable.
“What are we going to do? I’m not going to age.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “But we’ll figure it out together.”
Her words are confident, but her voice makes it sound like a question.
For the first time in a very long life, I don’t leave.