Personal Narrative: When Did I Die

Once upon a time, I lived. I lived a wealthy and hospitable life in aristocratic circles; however, that same young man became greedy and corrupt to a point where a deal was struck with the devil.

It was 1890 when I died, although my casket remains empty to this day. I have continued with my life from that day forth—always living, no matter how sinister, and never dying. I stay a few years in one place before moving on and establishing somewhere else. There was only ever one other person with knowledge of my long existence. Now, there is another.

It was the excruciating pain that alerted me. The book I was pleasantly reading in my library fell to the floor. I quickly rose from the comforts of my chair to the darkened corridor to go in search of

Wait. How old are you exactly?”

“Depends. Do I count my age from the date of my birth or from the date of my apparent death?”

“What? Wait. How old were you when you died?”

“Thirty-two.”

“When did you die?” she asked, as she looked at the top-most page. She struggled with this question, and I knew she didn’t want to hear the answer. She continued, “This is dated November, 1892.”

“My supposed death was 126 years ago: May, 1890, in London to be exact. You have so far burned the first two years of my life and all my sins with it.” Her face was contorted with disbelief. I continued, “My soul is contained within those pages, and that without, I could not exist. You have already begun that process by burning some of those pages.”

“It isn’t possible,” she said, shaking her head.

I noticed a glass and a bottle of brandy on the side table. They sat beside the more recent pages of an otherwise full manuscript. She had spent much time reading and drinking, but I sighed with relief that the whole of it wasn’t within her hands. “I assure you, my dear, it is,” I said. I was beginning to lose my patience. “As long as my story continues to be penned, my soul shall live and those, that you are holding, are pieces of my