The tired Immortal

I always thought that when I finally kicked the bucket I would feel something, anything. In all of my fantasies about my death there was a consistent sensation of relief that washed over me, and sometimes, very rarely, I even felt fear. I would only be lying to myself if I didn't concede that the big question about what lies beyond the great, annoyingly unrelenting journey that we call life didn't keep me up at night questioning my own exsistence, but when you've lived through a couple centuries, give or take a week or so, suddenly an enternity of darkness doesn't seem half bad. Maybe I would finally get a good night's rest for a change, and after spending two hundred years trying to find a way to put myself out of my misery, you would think I would at least feel the tiniest bit of happiness or pride in my accomplishment. After all, it's not everyday that an immortal figures out how to off themselves, and believe me when I say that I've tried just about everything.

It seems like only yesterday that I secretly sparked the French Revolution all in an eleborate plot to end up on the wrong side of the guillotine. One might suggest that overthrowing a monarchy and letting an entire country's streets run with blood just to take your own life might be a little bit excessive, but hey, i'd always been a fan of theatrics and look how much better off France is now, so you could say that I might have even done them a favor, but since I'm still here to relay this story, you could probably tell that my plan didn't exactly pan out. No one informed me that immortals could survive beheadings. Someone go ahead and explain how that works to me.

Anyway, that about sums up the greath lengths I would go to just to end it all, so imagine my surprise that when the time finally came when I would get to ultimately rest, I felt absolutely nothing. There was no relief, no fear, or even any surprise that my plan actually worked. There was just the sound of my heartbeat slowing as I began to accept that this really was how I was going to meet my end. Almost six hundred years of escaping death only to be taken out by a simple cure. There had to be some irony in there somewhere. It all just seemed too easy, almost like it couldn't be real. Was this really how I would die?

Just when I was beginning to think this really was the end and everything had begun to go dark, my heart began to race and my eyes snapped open. Of course it was too easy. How could I ever believe that my enternal punishment would have such an easy loophole. If there is a God, then he's probably having a good ole laugh at my expense right about now. Too bad I'll never get to meet him. I groaned internally. Another day, another failed death. When will this nightmare finally end?