Those Who Would Not Die

At first, when people stopped dying, it was like a fairy tale. By some unknown miracle, every man, woman, and child in our world was no longer subject to death. No more funerals, no more mourning, no more lost loved ones. Death had somehow been banished from our world and we all rejoiced.

But the price of immortality quickly became obvious. Death was gone, but age still existed. Disease still existed. War still existed. The elderly still grew older and more feeble, but they wouldn’t die. The diseased still grew weaker and thinner, but they wouldn’t die. The injured would bleed and bleed every last drop of blood they had, aching in pain, but still, they wouldn’t die.

A person could maintain their health for as long as possible, but the inevitable always came. They always became wrinkled, their eyes sinking further into their skulls, their mouths shriveling up, becoming too weak to eat or talk.

But still, there was breathing. Still, their eyes moved. Even though they looked dead, the rising of their chests, pounding of their hearts, and slow blinking of their eyes let us know they were not. They were still there. Thinking. Feeling. Living.

Their eyes were filled with some inexplicable emotion, begging for something. What was it? Did they want love, inclusion? Did they still want us to talk to them, to hear us laugh, to watch us eat? Did they still want to hear about our world, what we were doing, what worried us, what made us happy, what was important to us?

Or did they want to die? Were they begging for a way to be released so they wouldn’t have to see us laughing, eating, crying, moving, living? Were they in pain?

We didn’t know which they wanted. They were too weak to say.

We tried including them. We sat them at our dinner tables, took them to our parties, and walked them in our parks. But their eyes just stared, slowly blinking, their mouths remaining motionless, and the pleading continued. What did they want?

We tried to kill them. Carefully, deliberately, humanely, we tried to softly end their lives. Poisoning, suffocating, and drowning didn’t work. Stabbing, shooting, and beheading didn’t work. Dissection, disembowelment, and crushing didn’t work. No matter what, the hearts kept beating, the eyes kept moving. Except, then there was pain — real, physical pain — mingled with the profound emotion in their eyes. Their eyes’ pleading became even stronger.

So we started to load the ships. Ships that used to take people on adventures, explore different parts of the world, gain new knowledge, bring back fortune, and build empires became ferries for the dried, living husks. Ancient, uninhabited, mysterious continents became graveyards for those who would not die.

Everyday, the ships sail in and out. We load on those who are too old or weak to move or speak anymore, their chests rising and falling, hearts pounding, eyes blinking and pleading. We say our goodbyes and load them on, then turn our backs as the ships sail away, waiting for them to return empty. They always return empty.

I wonder what it’s like there across the sea. Is it better for them? Do they like it? Are they happy there? Or do their eyes still plead?

I see one of the ships on the horizon now. Whether it’s sailing toward or away from me, I do not know. I just know that one day, I’ll be on it. Breathing, thinking, feeling, eyes still staring, I’ll be on it. And I’ll be alive, just like them.