Death Everlasting (short story)

They called it the Hephaestus Event. An asteroid five miles wide bounced off the moon and into the Pacific. Half the planet died. The rest of us bathed in the life-granting gasses of the radioactive Pacific, and now we’re immortal.

That was a million years ago.

A million years before the Hephaestus Event, apes were becoming human. A million years after it, there’s nothing. We’ve run out of interesting stories. Stephen King won’t shut his goddamn pie hole. He’s written literally a million stories about a writer who something something deadly demon something something magic shadows and the day is saved. Fuck that guy.

Why’d we have to lose J.K. Rowling? I’d give anything for another Harry Potter story that wasn’t crap ass fan fiction. Don’t judge me! I’m in hell.

Nothing kills us. I’ve leapt off of buildings, drowned. Hell, I went through a wood chipper off the back of a truck going 90 down the highway. You think my cells would know well enough to leave the fuck alone? Nope. They find a way.

It’s life everlasting. Like all you smug motherfuckers prayed for. Life. Everlasting. What I wouldn’t give to just lie down in a hole and rot.

I’ve been married a hundred thousand times. At one point, we had a little contest, between me and my neighbors. What? Oh, you’re thinking the world’s declined into roaming packs of skull-face-painted ne’er-do-wells who’d get a kick out of beheading people? There were.

They got bored, gave up. Fuck ’em.

Where was I. Oh. Right.

Married. Me and the bastards on my street had a contest going for a while. Who could stay married to their braying screeching harpie the longest? Because, sure, while you swore “til death do us part”, trust me, those days are gone. And could a bitch bear to part with you after a couple thousand years? Nope. Fuck that. They’re in it for the long run. And you can’t kill them. Can’t bury them. Can’t leave them in jail. They’ll claw their way out after a hundred years or so. Eventually, they get over you. Or the other way around.

Theresa, she stole my heart. She took a knife, carved it out of my chest and ran away. A week later, I woke up and she was gone. She’s probably with the drowners now. They strap weights to themselves and now they’re on the bottom of the ocean. Drowning and then healing. It’s what passes for entertainment, if that’s what you’re into.

I miss the days of worrying. Worrying about hunger, illness. Money. A place to live. None of it matters anymore. There is nothing to do. Nothing. Anything and everything, it’s been done.

It’s been done to death.