Dear Reader,
Humanity never changes. Not really.
“What if we could stay young forever?” This hackneyed bundle of words is a question that I have heard thousands of times throughout the long duration of my life. Mocking me.
They ask the vapid question among friends or in weekly newspapers. They ask it as if freezing time and living forever is the best thing that could ever be bestowed onto someone. Like it is their only savior against the evil of Death. But I would do anything--anything-- to do just that; die.
Even though I have had hundreds of names during my life (due to the fact that I have to assume a new identity every two decades so people don’t find out of my incapability to age), the name I was born with is Jane Smith, and I am two hundred and eighteen years old. I am finally going to share my story. It has been too long of a fight, and I can’t hold this weight anymore.
I would tell you my birthday as I can infer this letter will find itself into some museum or into the National Archives, but it has been so long that I don’t remember it. I don’t remember the day that my mother gave birth to me. The day I gained life. The day when everyone I could ever love was still living, breathing. The day when I was still normal. Where my life was headed directly toward the same place as everyone else. Where everything was still “perfect” and “incorruptible” in my eyes.
To everyone else, I am 18. To the government, to the people that call me “friend”, I have barely lived. Even the people who think they know me; don’t. No one knows what I have been through. The people I have lost. The people who I have loved and then lost. To them, I am a young woman with ambition who is now just starting her life. But in reality, I am an old woman who has witnessed the Civil War, the Woman’s Rights Movement, and BOTH World Wars.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? That I am so acquainted with Death, seen him in action, and yet he can not take me. That I've been through more than anyone, experienced more trauma than what a person should, and yet everyone assumes that I'm just a little girl.
No one takes me seriously. And maybe that isn’t even their fault. I mean I wouldn’t take a teenager seriously, in any generation. They’re all annoying.
However, it is frustrating having people belittle me and expect me to see white when all I can see is black.
The reason I'm stuck in my eighteen-year-old body is because of a choice that I made 200 years ago. Funny, right? How much one decision can alter one’s life?
I used to be what everyone now presumes I am: ambitious, curious, and determined. That's how all of this started.
Out of all of the memories that have slipped away over the years, this one will never leave.
Because it was the start of everything.
It began one summer day in July. My family and I had just gotten back from a five-hour sermon in the town square, and we were all exhausted. Even though we did nothing other than sit, there was just something about sermons back then that sucked all of the energy from everyone.
Despite my weariness, I made the decision to venture out into the mysterious woods that day because I had never done so before. After many leaves crunching and birds chirping, sweat had pooled on my forehead, threatening to drip onto my day dress. I knew I had to take a break or my mother would kill me, but why I stopped had nothing to do with damaging my dress. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at the scene that laid out in front of me.
It was like one of those mystical stories in children's books these days. There was a lake the size of a small house underneath a cave that was attached to a huge bolster of rocks. The light shone perfectly into the shimmering blue magnificence; calling my name.
The sweat from before arose amongst my thoughts, and--suddenly--the last thing I cared about was my attire.
I jumped into the cool abyss, letting the water soak into my heated skin.
And that was it. The damage was done. At first, I didn’t notice any changes, but it was hard to miss after a couple of years. I had lost my ability to grow.
It's been so long since I felt truly alive, and I wonder what my life could have been like if I stayed home that summer day. How many friends could I have made instead of worrying about my secret being found out? Could I have held onto my innocence a little longer?
I often ask myself these questions even though I know nothing can change my doomed fate.
I hope by reading this letter, you may finally get a glimpse of my past and the person I had to become. I hope, dear reader, that you might finally treat me as I am. Not optimistic or inexperienced.
But grown.
And broken.
Whoever you might be,
Jane Smith
Alyssa Valdivia is in the 10th grade. She has been writing since she was a little girl and enjoys reading. She is determined to make a difference and likes to spend her extra time helping the environment and being with her loved ones.
About this piece: "'Dear Reader' is a story formatted as a letter written by Jane Smith, a women who cannot age past her 18-year-old self. The letter highlights the difficulties she goes through, relating to her innocence and how people assume her innocence is."