|
|
|
|
|
|
Amazon.com, 
Amazon.co.uk, 
Amazon.de or 
Amazon.ca
|
 UnDying Attempt  (10 ratings)by Colin Linder Page 1 of 2 William Golden awakes to yet another morning. He'd once tried to count the number of mornings he'd awoken to. A silly exercise, perhaps, but when you'd spent as unGodly an amount of time on this earth as he has, even silly exercises can amuse you for a time. It had worked out to some crazy number like three hundred thousand, but he's long ago given up counting. All he can do now was pray that the count will end. Damn, but he's tired! Not physically, for he had slept the sleep of the dead last night; the three quarter bottle of gin had seen to that. No, he is world-weary, or perhaps life-weary is the proper term. I'm probably the first being in history to have had that thought and meant it, he thinks wryly. He has been walking this Earth for over two thousand years now. And he is tired. His body has become a prison to him, holding his soul captive in this world when all he longs to do, all he hopes and prays will happen, is to finally break the chains of this immortal existence and move on to the next plateau. He's sick of watching his loved ones die before him, growing old and fading away in his arms as he watches helplessly, as young and unchanged as ever. He is sick of being scared to love anymore. . . it has been centuries since he has let himself care for anyone. Sighing, he throws the covers back and swings himself out of bed. There has to be a way! he thinks, the same thought that has started every morning for ages. Everyone dies, sooner or later. There has to be a way to end it all. . . I just need to find it. Each day is the same now. Get out of bed. . .attempt to kill himself. What shall it be today? he wonders. He'd bought a gun yesterday from a shady character on Seventh Ave., perhaps blowing his brains out will work today. Or perhaps throwing himself in front of a subway train; he hasn't gotten around to that one yet. Perhaps the combination of the electrical jolt and the impact of the train will work where other methods have failed. As he performs his morning routine, he stares at the bleary-eyed reflection in the cracked mirror than hangs above a dirty bathroom sink. For two millenia that image has stared back at him, never changing, the same middle-aged face that had mysteriously ceased to age one day, the same face that now seems to taunt him, as if to say 'You and me are in it forever bub, . . .forever.' And that is the kicker. The immortality that had seemed such a blessing in the beginning is now a Hell he can't escape. There is nothing left for him to do in this world, and he aches with a burning desire to be allowed to cross over to the next. He washes away the last traces of sleep from his eyes, and begins to get dressed, donning his favorite suit. In fact, his only suit, the same thing he puts on every morning; a dark black three-piece suitable to the funeral his life has become. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Colin Linder, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
Copyright © 1999 - 2004 sffworld.com