Writing: Muse Files - One Hundred Lives, One Love

He runs his finger around the rim of his glass, staring absently out of the window. His mind deeply diving into his vast past. Unlike most men, whose past ranges back a few decades, his spans centuries. A quick glance around his office would tell you he is a history buff, a collector of rare items of ages past. To a certain extent, that assumption is true, but only to the point where the possessions of an owner would be considered collection history. Each priceless item from civilizations long forgotten were purchased by him from stands and stalls, potters, carpenters, and blacksmiths throughout the misty halls of the past. He has lived a hundred lifetimes beyond the people he had grown up with, his original homeland has been destroyed and rebuilt countless times over the course of history until nothing remained of the place that has given the world a person like no other. A man who is living history.

A soldier in the Royal British Navy was once a guard of the great Cleopatra herself. A signature on the most important document in American history was written by the same hand that penned decree's that sent people to torture for their religious beliefs during the Inquisition. The man who sits in his comfortable chair, high atop the flagship tower of his multi-billion dollar company once sat upon a throne, watching slaves battle in a grand arena, surrounded by blood thirsty Romans. He has lived every type of life in almost every society the world had to offer. Prince or pauper, king or carpenter, he has lived them all. He has fought and died in battle after battle, yet always awakens completely whole. Over the years, he has committed acts of terrible evil, but has done acts of undeniable good. Never staying in one place beyond a generation, making sure to never arouse suspicion, his life, though long and full of countless people and friends, stands hollow, echoing empty down the countless years.

He had loved once, only once in the hundreds upon hundreds of years of his life. He had spent a deliriously happy fifty years with the only person he ever dared to share his secret with. He can still see her in his dreams, both those while sleeping and awake. It has been over three hundred years since he held her in his arms, felt her touch on his face . . . felt the life leave her frail, elderly body when her time finally came. He met her when she was only nineteen, living in a small house with her family in the middle of some country, it's name escaping his memory. In all the years he had wandered the world from one side to the other, he had never been touched by love. Her response was enthusiastic, love coming to her just as strong and fast, or so she told him over those happy years. They lived in joyous serenity for the remainder of her life. He shivers as the memories flood over him, clouds cover the sun, casting a shadow through his office.

Beside the death of his parents, he never felt that type of loss before. Even now, high above the world in his tower of glass and steel, he is wracked by the memories, even after three hundred long years. He stands up, his chair sliding back as he pushes it away. Draining the last of his cup, he goes to his cabinet, pushing the keypad to unlock his most prized possession. The doors open and she stares at him. He stares back into her acrylic eyes, getting lost in the almost perfect painting. With lips shaking from the loss and grief pouring over him, he kisses her painted lips and slowly closes the doors. He walks back to his desk, looking like a man who is all business. His desk is covered with papers, letters to assistants to make certain his belongings are shipped to fictitious family members. Bottles, both emptied and spilled, are spread artfully around the desk, as well. A note to the board of directors describing the stresses of running the company lay propped up against the phone. With a deep, slow breath, he watches the sun slide down the horizon. Like a man going for a Sunday stroll, he walks to the window, opens it, and steps out.