By Sophie Choi
I exist. I breathe. My heart pulses. But I do not truly live. The faint, glowing spirit of life that once coursed through my veins has been brutally slayed by the ghosts of those I once loved. And when one spends his entirety in an infinite loop of fear and sorrow, he becomes numb. But he continues to linger, devoid of meaning.
I have been damned with the curse of existing as I watch everybody around me decay to their death. Every second passes by without value. Life is precious because it is scarce; my curse of immortality strips life of its worth, reducing it to a cycle of insignificance. To me, the seconds that slowly pass by become excruciating. And gradually, this transforms into my primary source of torment.
But there is a way for me to end this suffering, a way for me to finally be at peace. Through the adamantine knife. The object I have spent my whole life searching for but failed to find a single trace of.
The scenery outside my window seems like that of a late autumn—even in the darkness of the night, I can spot the red and yellow leaves littering the ground.
Staying inside the freezing dungeon of my house feels suffocating, so I step out and walk down the road that is all too familiar. I crawl into the small tunnel I find solace in when I crave some time to drown in my own thoughts. I’m all alone—the isolation feels normal, almost comforting. The soft breeze grazes my cheeks. And I think about how much I want it all to end.
Then suddenly, I’m not alone anymore.
There’s a shadow cast over me from where I am crouching on the ground, and I turn my head to face a man. But he is no ordinary human. The way his black apparel conceals his entire figure, even his face, sends chills down my spine. I can tell from the aura he emits, from the way he stands completely still, that he’s waiting for me to speak first.
I stand up slowly, approaching the mysterious man. “Who are—” I start, but I am cut off immediately.
“I know you, Randel Angelus. Cursed with the punishment of immortality at age 36. Lived 1204 years,” the man speaks in a deep monotone voice.
Who is this man? What does he want from me? No—most importantly, how does he know so much about me?
Ignoring my confused stutter of words, he carries on in the same passive tone.
“Do you believe you have compensated enough for your sins?”
I stare blankly, my brain refusing to form any thoughts. And suddenly, I find myself losing the ability to speak. I try to decipher what he is looking for in my answer. Honesty? Begging for forgiveness? Heavy seconds pass until I catch a glint.
I see it. Finally, I see it. The man holds the adamantine knife—the termination of my suffering, the very object I’ve spent my entirety searching for. Just within reach. Without thinking, I drop to my knees. Tears stream down my face and incoherent sentences escape my lips. I tremble, begging.
“Please, please. I’ve suffered enough,” I choke out. “Please let it end. I need it to end, please!”
My voice reduces to a whisper as I clutch desperately onto the hem of the man’s coat.
“Please kill me.”
The man pries my fingers off of him and speaks with unchanging apathy. “It has been decided that you have lived up to your sins. You are now sentenced to your death.”
Before I can fully comprehend what the man said, I hear the adamantine knife clang on the ground as the man drops it and disappears completely, and I cry out, tears of desperation morphing into tears of joy. With shaking hands, I pick up the small knife, which seems so insignificant but is simultaneously the one thing I have desperately been seeking my whole life.
At last, I sink the knife into my chest, and the pain feels liberating. Blood pours out, staining my hands, pooling on the ground. My head spins as I feel the life draining out of me, and yet my mind feels ever so clear. I slump down and turn my head as the faint pulsing of my heart refuses to end. The moon, drenched in scarlet, shines ever so brightly on the sword that pierces my skin. I close my eyes. Finally I break.