to parents who had felt the presence of death in their lives. Born before the government outlawed children as a means to keep the population under control.
During the initial movement of the undead. When it was just emerging, when genes that stopped the aging process were first being isolated, before the endless chemical peels and face lifts that kept our skin from rotting, some people actually wanted to die. They said that it wasn’t natural to live forever. They said they wanted to pass on to a greater place. To a heaven. To a nirvana. To a new life.
They couldn’t have children because of the new laws.
Without new generations wanting to die, the idea of death eventually just… fizzled
No one dies.
Accidents are rare.
Suicide is even rarer. Most people don’t even remember what suicide is.
And so we go on living.
Because that’s what we know how to do.
We go to our jobs that never end.
We make money to spend on gene therapy and plastic surgery.
Work.
Spend.
Live.
It’s a simple formula. It’s basic math. It’s a testament to humanity’s ability to oversimplify. Without death we don’t fear, without fear we don’t change, without change we simply dig a niche of routine so deeply that we’ll never be able to get out of it. And perhaps that’s how things have always been.
But I wouldn’t know.
You’d think that eternal life would equate to a search for greater meaning.
A need to perfect things simply because we finally had the time.
You’d think we would accumulate knowledge, ideas, experience.
Of course we don’t. Those things may have been novel for the first 200 years, but they got old.
Like a river carving out a path, adventure always gives way to complacency.
And when I was younger, before I’d found my routine, before I’d found a rhythm to base my life around, I’d always assumed that the love of my life would be someone who I would spend eternity caring for, someone that I’d never stop being passionate about. I had assumed that it’d be like in the books I once read. I had assumed that I’d spend years molding every aspect, like the perfect poem, each line painstakingly tended to.
But love isn’t about romance.
The words love and routine, they’re interchangeable in my world.
And so now I’m living this life. Spending my days with Evaline. We wake. We kiss. We leave. We work. We eat. We watch television. We go to bed. It’s natural. Without it we’d be lost.
Right now I’m at work. In the middle of another meeting for another product that’s exactly the same as the last.
I’ve got my tie on. I’ve got my freshly shaved face and cologne. I’ve got my hair gelled and I’m flashing my white teeth every time I speak.
I’ve had this job for longer than I can remember.
1000 years.
Maybe more.
When something becomes easy I tend to stick with it.
With simplicity comes complacency comes the comfort of routine.
I keep thinking of Evaline.
She is the love of my life.
She’s going to die.
The words still have no meaning to me.
Franklin, my co-worker, my pal, the person that I talk about sports with, he comes up to me.
‘You look lost.’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Evaline is going to die.’
‘Is she going to kill herself?’
‘No.’
‘Huh. Weird.’
And he’s not meaning to sound cold or callous or anything at all. He simply doesn’t understand what it means.
Death.
It’s like trying to comprehend God when all you’ve got is a bible.
So I reply: ‘Yeah, I know.’
I keep typing on my computer. Writing memo’s. Preparing time sensitive documents. Doing all the things that are now second nature to me.
‘Did you want to go get something to drink after work today?’
‘Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.’
‘You sure?’
‘I should probably spend some time with my wife.’
‘Whatever you gotta do.’
And of course I agree to go to the bar. Because it’s Tuesday and that’s what we do on Tuesday. Me and Franklin and Doug from the copy room. We all go to the bar. We all drink. We all drive home drunk. We all try and fuck our wives. We all get shot down. We all jerk off into our respective toilets. We all go to bed smelling like booze and sweat.
It’s nice in a way.
And so after work I call my wife.
‘I’m going to the bar with Franklin.’
‘Can’t you spend the evening with me?’
‘I already said that I’d go.’
‘Ellis…’
‘We’ll hang out tomorrow.’
And this is how it is.
Everything gets put off. Everything gets put off because we have forever to get things done.
‘Did you hear!?!’ This is Franklin. ‘Ellis’s wife is gonna die!’
There’s a broken moment of confusion where everyone at the table seems puzzled. We’ve all got beers in our hands; we’ve all got red eyes.
Me.
Franklin.
Doug (who we don’t really care about, but we allow him to join us on occasion).
Kevin the bartender.
‘Is she joining one of those death cults down south?’ This is Kevin.
‘Death cult?’
‘Yeah, you know, I hear that they have them down in Mexico and stuff. People who kill themselves just because they want to try something new.’
‘No.’
‘So she’s not killing herself?’
‘Not killing herself.’
‘Then how’s she gonna die?’
This is a question I hadn’t thought to ask. Maybe I didn’t care, maybe I didn’t think to care. How is she going to die? Why is she going to die?
