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Wanting Mortality

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Ever since I was seventeen, I have been waiting to die. No, more than that--wishing, hoping, begging God or Government or whoever would listen to kill me. And when no one did, I tried to kill myself.
But I can't die. Neither can my husband, John, or my parents. And though I am at least two hundred, maybe more, I still look like I'm a senior in high school, whose biggest concern is what shoes to wear.
"Raye," Everett says, and I snap to attention. "Any leads?"
I work at the company of Destroying Immortal Essence, or DIE. Every day, I dissect what Government potion did this to us, made us forever. DIE is just one of many companies trying to make the big bucks off of killing people.
"That's what I thought," Everett says, and he moves on to talk to Fred, the DIE worker next to me.

John greets me when I get home. "Dinner's on the table."
I nod. It's down that John and I don't get along well-we do. It's just that when you've been together for as long as we have, you run out of things to do and say.
We eat in silence. One good thing about immortality is that you have lots of free time to pursue your hobbies. Since John works part-time as a soccer coach, he has perfected playing the piano, art, and now, cooking. The meal is delicious.

I wake up that night nauseous, sick to my stomach. Not because I'm sick, because I don't get sick. Enough time has passed that there is a shot for everything, even a cold. But because I'm sick of this monotony.
I get out of bed, careful not to wake John, and go to the mirror. I look seventeen, still, with long blonde hair and green eyes. My face never developed enough to be an adult's, the way my older sister's did.
I want to grow old. I want to have children, which we cannot do in our immortal state. After all, if no one can grow any older, how can a fetus? I want to die--and I want to live.
The floorboard is still there, and I wedge it up. Underneath lies the Medication. Government gave it to us after an epidemic, the fifth one in my lifetime, hit. Everyone was sick, dying. It was supposed to make us healthy and stronger, the Medication, but it didn't. It made us immortal instead.
I remember the exact words Government told us: "the Medication has very exact dosages. Take one. Do not take more. Do not take less. One, exactly."
I remember, at seventeen, being curious as to what that meant. Why couldn't we take more than one? And why did we have to have it? I didn't have the epidemic, and no one around me did, either.
Now, clutching the bottle in hand, I walk to the window. The air is cold in my face.
I want to do this because I am still seventeen at heart. I want to do this because almost thirty percent of working adults are working trying to solve a problem Government created I want to do this because I have always been a dare-devil. I want to do this because I want to die, and I want to do this because I want to live. Really live. Not just pretending.
I uncap the bottle...





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