The Truth: it is the absolute worst thing in the world to come to terms with. At times, it is downright the worst thing to tell; sometimes, even more so, it is the worst thing to hear; however, words cannot describe how terrible it is when the truth is both. It is the line that is drawn between reality, and what we wish and pretend it is. Despite everything we make it out to be and pretend it’s not, the Truth is an absolute.
We can’t escape it, no matter how hard we try; it’s always knocking at the door in our mind, making us question what we know and answer what we don’t. We can’t mask it up with lies; it always falls off and leaves the truth lying out in the open. It hurts us; glorifies us; proves us; shatters us. It can bring people together, or tear two apart. And no matter how much we try to hide it- whether from ourselves or others- it always throws guilt at us until we let it out.

I am the exception to this Absolute.

Everyone has their secrets, and everyone eventually lets them out into the world: telling a boyfriend, a best friend, a diary. But not me. My secret I can never share; it is my life, or something like it. I have no guilt in hiding it, in lying to everyone I’ve ever known. To share my secret with anyone, even the people I have had the most trust in, would be to throw myself into a medical lab; to be called insane and put into an institution; to lose everything I have gained in life.

I have lost love a hundred and one times over; watched friends be dead and burried, and cried over their graves year after year.

And I haven’t aged a day.

If I said I had a curse, it would be an understatement; if you told me I was the walking dead, I would let you feel my heartbeat; if you said I was insane, I would show you all my past photos. I am no vampire- I believe them to be only in books and movies. I am the only one I have known to be like this; I’ve searched medical records and newspaper reports through the years, and found nothing like my… case. My family all died a timely death, of natural causes, but never me.

I have tried time and time again to die- nothing has worked thus far. I have never gotten sick, not even a cold; every time I have hurt my skin- a scratch, a cut, a burn- it is always healed within moments. Many would kill for immortality; scientists would do anything to figure out why I am the way I am; many would kill me to have what I have. But I would kill to be rid of it.

I was born in Jamestown, Virginia in 1847- which, by count, would make me one hundred and sixty-two years old; although, I appear to be only a mere nineteen year old girl. My parents, Amelia and Henry Barron, were young when they married; he, a wealthy plantation owner, and she from a well-off family. It was a scandalous marriage, I was told. Amelia was pregnant when they were wed, and birthed my oldest brother, Henry Barron II, three months after. But they were in love, something I have never been able to experience, fully.

I had two older brothers- the second being Arnold- and one younger sister, Winifred. She was the beauty of the family, everyone said- only two years younger than I was. She had beautiful, long and silky golden hair, and deep green eyes- like emeralds. All the boys liked her, and one particular boy married her at the age of only seventeen. It was that same year that we found I wouldn’t grow older. Age never struck me from then on- and as all my family died off, I was left untouched by the world around me.

None of my brothers nor my sister had children, though, leaving the family name to me. What a coincidence this must have been- myself not aging, and all my family infertile. My father was the first to pass, and on my mothers death bed we had two priests- the first said I was touched by the hand of God, “a miracle child” he’d said; the second said this was God’s wrath for having intercourse before marriage. I believe it just to be fate.

My birth was, however, quite a miracle in itself. I was born a still-birth- dead as dead could be. For twenty-three minutes I didn’t breath and my heart didn’t beat; and right as they were about to dispose of my dead body, I started to cry. The doctor inspected me, making sure there was nothing wrong- and there wasn’t. I was a healthy baby girl, and grew up into a healthy woman.

The doctor told my mother then that I was a miracle child. I, myself, have no belief in miracles; no belief in a God; no belief in anything other than life is what you make of it.

After my family passed away, my eldest brothers wife being the last, my secret began. No one but my family and some town folk knew of me. Those who spoke of me were said to be “not right” and put away in homes for the elderly, or for the mentally insane. I inherited my fathers estate, claiming to be the offspring of my younger sister. Her picture still hangs on the wall of the furriery. Along with the house, I gained both my brothers wealth, my sisters’ husbands wealth, and my fathers wealth. All together, I had enough money to live one hundred lifetimes, without working a day.

I have, now, acquired seven houses along the east coast; nine in the mid-west; two in Alaska and Hawaii; and six on the west coast. I change my name every time I move to a new town, living like a nomad so no one figures out my secret. I change homes every five years, so by the time I make it back to the same house, all the neighbors have either left or died. My face is never remembered.

For now, I am living in Redmond, Washington- my little house in the woods. Its quiet, and the closest neighbors live two miles away in every direction. I have few friends who know me by Emilee Baxton; and due to circumstances, even fewer suitors. To say I am content would be a lie; but to say I’d rather be lonely and unhappy, than locked up in a medical lab, would also be a lie.

My life is simple. Living it is simple. Ending it is a whole other story. But what if there were someone like me out there? Wouldn’t that be a hoot?