The Downside of Immortality

Her laughs had their own range: from babbling brook to the stomping of elephants. Bartholomew’s favorite laugh was when she snorted like a pig, her giggles punching the air. When she spoke, her voice flowed like melted butter, her southern lilt charming. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she sang anyways, her enthusiasm overpowering her inabilities. The confidence in her own voice was something to behold. Her voice, her words, her tone were the definition of beauty. The way she said his name was enough to set his soul aflame. He could have listened to her for an eternity, a prospect he nearly gained when an accident stole her away.

Now, 200 hundred years after her untimely demise, Bartholomew is alone. All of the people he’s met and none match the perfection he’s lost. No language is as sweet as hers, no tongue as skilled, no voice as pleasing.

If only recording devices had existed, then perhaps his misery would not be so acute.

Bartholomew, Bart now, stands in line at one of the street cafés. He listens to the burble of conversation around him, to the two girls sharing whispered gossip behind him and the boy chatting on the cellular phone in front of him. He imagines the shape of their voices and their words, and finds them lacking. They are all missing some fundamental quality. Their voices are dissonant and sharply pointed where hers had been smooth and rounded. Theirs are a balloon filled to popping, bloated and gaseous, whereas hers had been as flexible as liquid, rising and falling to the atmosphere of the room.

If he could but listen to her voice one more time, he would be grateful for the rest of his unending life. He sighs and forces the pressure behind his eyes to subside.

“aHahaha-”

Bart’s head snaps up, his ears tuned to that sound, to the laugh like a herd of elephants rampaging. He tears out of the line, following his ears. He pushes past people, ignoring their unpleasing sounds of protest.

He spots the source of the laughter. A girl walking with her friend down the street. Her long black hair sways in the wind as her head tilts back in another elephant laugh. Desperation and sweet, sweet relief flood Bart’s senses.

Bart runs to his Ariella. How is she still alive after all these years? He could have sworn she died that day, but perhaps he was mistaken.

He grabs Ariella by the arm and turns her around, ready to be hers again.

"Hey! What are you doing? Let me go!” the girl shouts. Bart lets her arm go. His stomach plummets to his toes, even as that angry voice soothes his wounded soul. This is not his Ariella. It looks like her, with her brown eyes and round lips, but the rest of her is different. She doesn’t have the mole on her right cheekbone, and her skin tone is some degrees darker. Her nose is thinner, more aquiline than Ariella’s wide nose had been. This is not his Ariella, but it sounds like her.

“I apologize ma’am, I thought you were someone else. Please forgive me,” Bart says. Her eyes soften a fraction, and she pushes her hair behind her ear. Her friend watches carefully from behind her, body tense and ready for a fight.

“It’s fine, sir,” She huffs. The melody of her voice makes Bart want to close his eyes and sway to the music.

“You sound exactly like someone I used to know. You have a beautiful voice,” Bart says. He can’t help it. The girl snorts.

“Thanks, sir, but I don’t know about beautiful. I can’t sing.”

“It is beautiful nonetheless.” The girl smiles.

“Thank you. Have a nice day. I hope you see your friend sometime soon,” the girl says.

“Thank you, miss.” Bart smiles, tears forming in his eyes. He watches his beloved’s descendant leave him and gives thanks to the Universe for granting him his wish, but now he must learn to let go.