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They said we would live forever and we believed them but every day I look myself in the mirror and I curse our naivety. We thought we could play god and now we live in the aftermath. I don’t know how long it’s been since the procedure took place. Time doesn’t pass the same way when you are immortal; the days don’t touch me anymore. I may look young and beautiful, not a day older than twenty-five, but my skin is dry like a piece of cardboard. It’s an illusion of life and I know it well.
How many years has it been? One hundred? Two? I can’t remember anymore. Did I take my pills? Was it the blue or the yellow one today? The pills buy us time, but we are still rotting inside and sooner or later, time is going to catch up with us. Time catches up with everyone and no one should live this long.
People die, out in the streets every day. Beautiful, young people like me, they just collapse. Their bones shatter, their hearts give out or some other vital organ snaps and puts them out of their misery. I envy them; the rest of us remain trapped in this endless sick nightmare of vanity.
I ramble around the house, carefully avoiding the edges of the furniture. My ankles are killing me today, so I swallow another pill. I hope it’s the right one. I stare at my painting; it’s a self-portrait and I need to finish it before I die. It’s the only thing that keeps me alive these days: unfinished business. But it’s more than that really; I’m leaving something behind and whoever comes after us will know exactly how beautiful I was.
Most of them are dead now. My kind will be extinct soon but that’s okay. We make room for someone new, someone who hopefully will not repeat our mistakes.
I look so alive in the painting. Did I really use to look like that? I feel so old now but I’m not sad; I’m happy. Today is a special day. Today, I remember.
The painting is finished and a sharp pain hits me in the chest the moment I lower my brush and palette. I reach out to touch the desk, to steady myself but it is too late. I collapse on the floor, taking my art supplies down with me. The palette rolls across the room, to eventually stop when it meets the corner and my gaze follows its path. A second sharp pinch, then small painful nips. I close my eyes and allow a smile to spread on my fragile face. I’ve treated myself like I was made of china for so long, I’ve forgotten how it is to smile.
Perhaps, I shouldn’t have taken that second yellow pill. Or was it blue? I don’t remember the color and after all those years, I definitely don’t remember the instructions they gave us. I turn and look at my creation for the last time. My hands are smeared with paint but it was worth it. I am beautiful. I am alive. And now, the time has come for me to die.
About Paraskevi Damianopoulou
Greek-born Eve Damianopoulos graduated from the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens with a BA in English Language and Literature. She spends her summers teaching foreign languages to children in Eastern Europe and delivering seminars centering on English, French and Greek literature as part of a voluntary work program. Eve grew up in a small town but she currently lives and works in Athens. She mainly focuses on urban fantasy and she loves stories about parallel worlds. For the past couple of years she’s been working on a novel
An insightful dystopia concerning the vanity of human nature and death! Thumbs up!