[ WP ] As an immortal , you strive to do something new each day . Today that thing is murder !

“ What does it feel like, ” I asked her, “ to die? ” 
 
 Her rollicking blue eyes were bolted wide and slick with fright. She didn ’ t answer, and that wouldn ’ t do. There musn ’ t be anything I can ’ t have, it isn ’ t the way. And though her lips said nothing, her eyes screamed. To think without them, without those bright, beautiful eyes, we could never have shared in this moment. They called me to her, a lantern in the belly of sweating, undulating bodies, and pulsating lights. 
 
 
 The Nightclub: ( noun ) cattle breeding grounds, outfitted in darkness to impede evolution. 
 
 
 I never much liked nightclubs unless, that is, I needed livestock. That morning I had woken hungry, and a trip to the farm would be just right. It took no planning, nor coaxing. I ’ ve been submerged in this particular fancy for, well, as long as I ’ ve known. It would be a pleasure. 
 
 
 The only preparation was waiting; you can ’ t hurry inspiration, and this sort of affair was most beautiful at night. Like a warm, bubbling stew, steeped with the spices of stems, stock, and sinew. When it ’ s cold, and the day has all but flickered out, the soup trickles down your spine, warming you from the inside in a way it can ’ t at any other hour. 
 
 
 And so I waited, and I fancied, and then I dressed. Women care a great deal about dress. 
 
 
 Not to clean as to be aloof, or too dirty as to be unseen. You must dress on-trend – show you ’ re capable. Give promise that you ’ re perfect for her, but not too specific as to feel perfect for someone else. 
 
 
 I combed my hair in a way that looked as if I hadn ’ t. Be better without effort. 
 Funny, my whole life has been effort, every day I try. I learn. I choose something new to expand myself into. 
 
 
 And yet the women stick like moths in honey, drawn by the golden glow of an effortless veneer built brick by brick of effort. 
 
 
 Then it was time. I waded into the bodies, into the lights, overcome by the stench of desperation ( which smells, oddly, like cheap perfume and expensive cologne ). I gazed over the undeserving heads until I saw something wonderfully blue. 
 
 
 It belonged to the Girl. She was surrounded by a gaggle of cackling geese, who tittered and fluffed their feathers for passing ganders. 
 
 
 But she was different. She was beautiful. A thick tapestry of hair was braided across her head and over one exposed shoulder, glittering like pale amber underneath the garish lights. Her lips sat like a ripe plum, tarted with candy apple. Her cheeks, oh her cheeks, still plump with promise, not yet starved by age. 
 
 
 Then, of course, were her eyes. They were the kind of eyes that could bring down walls, raise valleys, tear armies of the deadliest warriors asunder. They were like nothing I ’ d ever had, which is why they belonged in my hands. She was not old enough to be here, to be sure. Even better. If her place wasn ’ t here, then it was with me. 
 
 
 It didn ’ t take long. I worked my way through the grasping fingers, the latching eyes, the whispers of women who wouldn ’ t be. 
 
 
 The geese howled as I came. They strutted, presenting their tender breasts and thighs. 
 
 
 It wasn ’ t hard to extract the Girl. Just a warm hand and promise, “ I ’ m your student, love. ” She liked that, round lips pulled up in unrestrained satisfaction. 
 She deserved every ounce of it, I hadn ’ t lied. 
 
 
 I took her back ( “ Let ’ s go to your place, ” she said, cheeks tinged in the mortification of middle-class parents watching movies and waiting up ). 
 She marveled as soon as we entered, she said I had everything. 
 
 
 “ Almost. ” 
 
 
 I used to worry that I could never be a student to death for I ’ d never know it. But then I realized, in the cool, stewed hours of night, that there was only one way for someone to ever become an expert and I could still succeed. For if you succumb to death, you may recognize it for a moment, but just then, in that instant, you lose everything. The only way to manage was if you knew death without ever befalling her lesson yourself. I could that. We could do that. 
 Though I had never known death, I had imagined it with more vigor than anyone. It was the thing I needed, the thing I couldn ’ t have. 
 
 
 I didn ’ t want it to be too quick, I needed time to learn. 
 
 
 So I laid her on the bed, her fair skin rippling with anticipation. She was so soft I worried my rough, learned hands might tear or break her too soon. I ran my eyes over her. Her waist hadn ’ t yet ruined itself with dents, or her stomach with lines. She was slick, and new, and perfect. 
 
 
 Her neck was about the same as one of my hands, which was nice, so I could stroke her hair with the other. 
 
 
 Her eyes grew wide, changing from the fear of the unknown to the fear of certainty. I watched for every detail, soaking in the lesson so as to never forget. 
 
 
 Her cheeks tinged red, like her lips, and her hands were weak as they tugged on my fingers. When they gave up, I worried. 
 
 
 “ Tell me, please, ” I whispered into her ear, hearing the whine of her effort. 
 
 
 “ What does it feel like to die? ” 
 
 
 And though I released on her wind pipe for a moment, to give her a chance. 
 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 
 I panicked that I had done wrong, I had missed the lesson entirely with my greed. But then I saw her eyes, and they told me everything I needed to know. 
 
 
 I learned of death that night without succumbing; the only way to become to a master. 
 
 
 As I extracted myself, kissing her forehead and tucking her in, I heard a crunch beneath my foot. 
 
 
 In her excitement she ’ d dropped her bag, it seemed. It was small, and white, like a clamshell, its guts spilling out. I raised a boot to see a crushed red lipstick beneath. 
 
 
 I picked up the bag. The only thing left inside was a shiny, blue pair of knitting needles. I pulled them out with the fascination of fate. 
 
 
 Wonderful, I thought, tomorrow I ’ d learn to knit.
