The Gift of Mortality

Johnathan had never though much about death. Never had to. Death couldn't reach you when you were immortal. But each day, as everyone he knew faded from his world and into whatever came next, he began to consider: what came next?

The morning his father died was the morning he was determined to get answers.

Johnathan woke that day with a pounding in his head and at the door. The first, from a night spent deep in his cups. The latter from his uncle who had encouraged his bad habit.

"It is done," was all his uncle said before disappearing back down the hall.

Johnathan let out a sigh of relief.

As he poured himself a cup of coffee, the door knocked once more. He moved to answer with lethargic countenace.

The knocking persisted.

"Coming!" He shouted as he reached for the handle. The door swung inward and revealed an empty hallway.

A single black book lay on the welcome mat.

Johnathan stooped, swiped the notebook from its spot and returned to his coffee which he sat on the side table as he perched in his prefered morning chair.

"Lets see what we've got, shall we," he mumbled as he flipped open the book.

Being immortal, not a lot surprised him. But as bill after bill after bill flitted from the book's pages, he couldn't help but find his curiosity piqued.

"Interesting," he murmured.

He kept flipping the pages, amazed as the bills kept coming. He'd have to count them all later, as he was running late.

He folded the notebook, shoved it under the cushion of his morning chair, and left for the days work.

Billboards announced the death of his father, the mayor of their city, yet he couldn't find the sorrow that should have filled his heart. The pain or the ache or the suffocation that came with the losses of the other ones.

Instead, Johnathan was filled with light.

He made his way into the coffee shop and greeted his uncle as he had every day since the shop was originally built as a salon back in the day. The shared a nod as the older man slid a cup of rich black liquid toward the younger.

"Fine day?" he asked his uncle.

"Fine day, indeed."

A woman in black approached Johnathan, he green eyes sparking as fresh tears lined them silver.

"Johnathan, I am so sorry.." her words trailed away as she saw the happiness dancing behind his eyes.

"Whatever for, Marionette?"

"Why, your father of course."

"But, Mari," he said, using the pet name he usually saved for more intimate moments. He lowered his voice to a whisper, clutcher her arms in his hands, "I am free."

Marionette did not know what to say. Her lips parted and closed before working to immitate the smile lining Johnathan's.

"Of course," she said. Though she didn't know. Would never know.

Later that day, as Johnathan ran back up the stairs, he felt an ache in his bones. Something he never thought he'd find.

He loved it.

It meant he was real. Alive. Growing and breathing and being.

No longer would he stand still as time flew by. He was done watching empire after empire after empire rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall.

He was ready to live the days he was given. He was ready to end his days as an old man. With wrinkles and stories and memories and children.

He raced up to his apartment door, too excited to noticed the way his key gave too easily, as if the lock was already undone.

He pushed past the door, seraching for that ring. The one his mother gave him. The one he intended for his love. For Marionette. For she did not know what had taken him so long to get to this moment. But now, he was ready.

He did not notice the bills littered across the floor. He did not notice the little black book opened to a page with a message scrawled in his father's fragile handwritting. He did not notice the instructions, the careful instructions left to him.

If he had, he would have take the necessary precautions. Used the twenty thousand dollars found within that little black book to ensure his long life.

Instead, he found a figure in black. A shining silver dagger, because knife was too mundane of a term for a weapon such as this.

The dagger ran hot across his throat.

Blood slicked the blade.

His skin, meant to grow old with age and sun spots and wrinkles, curled beneath the dagger's sharp edge.

Johnathan had never though much about death. Never had to. Death couldn't reach you when you were immortal.