Out To See The World

hp: good friend, best shoulder

The 1975

Catfish and the Bottlemen

LANY

Billie Eilish

The Neighbourhood

EDEN

Lorde

Oh Wonder

Halsey

Sure, I could say it’s genetics, but I highly doubt that. My father’s a farmer and is married to a stay-at-home mom. They’re nice people, of course, but nice doesn’t seem to correlate to value. They both barely scratch a hundred thousand dollars combined.

I could say it was a mistake. After all, there wasn’t always an explanation. Most people who did stand out were famous in some facet but every once in a while, a baby was born with an exceptional price. I feel bad for them. They have to live a life of everyone bearing down on them to reach their full potential. I’m just lucky that I’m already in my twenties and a somewhat established carpenter. It pays the bill and that’s all I need.

That was, until I gained worldwide recognition.

Ever since I’ve been valued at fifty trillion – yes, you read it right – people have been treating me a lot differently. Old friends, past girlfriends, and annoying family members have popped out of the woodwork like crazy to capitalize on my newfound fame. Suddenly, I was desirable because of the unknown. And as far as they knew, it was better to make friends than enemies.

I became the focus of many scientists. They figured if I didn’t have political, monetary, or social power, it must have been something inside me that was unique. A series of tests were run on my body, analyzing every single cell for what makes me tick. The results were a little… unsatisfactory.

Superior athletic ability? Nope.

Cancer-resistant genes? Unfortunately, no.

Unexplainable superpowers? Only in my dreams.

After wearing me to the bone with tests and sucking me dry of blood, they gave up their attempts. As far as they could tell, I was an enigma no one knew how to solve. And at the rate they were going, I was going to be long dead before they made any headway.

Then the paparazzi came into play. Do you know what it’s like being stalked by a gaggle of sleazebags with cameras who have no sense of personal space? I have one word for it – shitty.

Well, one day, I was jogging at the nearby park. In hindsight, it was stupid, but I thought it was safe enough. I never expected them to swarm me like a cloud of bees. But by the time they surrounded me, it was too late to get away.

So I did what any reasonable person would, I sprinted like hell. In fact, I ran so fast that I didn’t even notice I was on a direct course for the pond in front of me. By the time I realized, I already had one foot on the surface of the water.

And then another.

Before I knew it, I was running on water. It wasn’t a mind-trick, at least not as far as I could tell. I was actually doing it of my own accord.

I turned back to the paparazzi. They were momentarily stunned but started to snap photos again. After all, they had to get the perfect shot. It would be the height of anyone’s career once it reached the tabloids.

Gus & Julia

When I was 20 years old, I walked home reading a book. I was so engrossed that I failed to notice the heavy metal vehicle moving at my frail, human body at 40 mph.

It swerved, I stopped, no one was hurt, no one died. They never do.

It was only when I took the cookies out of the oven that I noticed the mark on my arm. I knew what it meant. It was my duty to report to the authorities to be murdered. If I didn’t, anyone who saw it would kill me on sight.

I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty years old! I hadn’t even finished college, much less gotten to all my grand plans and ambitions (never mind that I didn’t have any. I had time to plan out the rest of my life later. So I thought.)

I burned my arm on the cookie sheet. The scar covered the black mark somewhat, and I put a bandaid over it. The people at work didn’t question it.

After some time, the burn healed. The mark remained black over the scar, bigger now. I tried carving it out with a knife. It was winter now, and long sleeves were the norm - no one would notice my injury. The mark remained, the bloody lower layers of my skin black as death’s robes.

From then on I wore long sleeves. When I went to the doctor I covered it with paint and hoped they wouldn’t notice. They didn’t. I was lucky.

The mark grew.

I was in trouble when it reached my wrist. As soon as it covered my hand I would be discovered. I ran.

Soon I will be nothing but a shadow in the night. Perhaps some of the stories they tell of night creatures originate from people like me. Those who escaped, their marks covering them, even the whites of their eyes turned deepest black. In a way, we are no longer human. Isolated, undying, immortal, betrayers of nature’s most fundamental law: all things must come to an end.

If I outlive humanity, will I ever die?

When the sun goes nova, will I still exist?

When the universe ends, will I endure?

Or is death simply a shortcut to that end? When the last star has gone out and matter has been erased, will Death greet me with a weary sigh, saying “where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you for an eternity.”

“Why?”