The shockwave of the explosion resonated so deep in my body it felt as if the marrow of my bones would vibrate free from its skeletal cage. But that’s getting ahead of ourselves, isn’t it?
Well, my name is Jack…at the moment. My first memory is from January 3rd, 1496 waking in an empty field outside Florence, Italy seeing an unsuccessful test flight of one of Leonardo Da Vinci’s flying machines.
Don’t worry, most people have that reaction.
I’ve been roaming the earth in search of an answer since I rose from a literal knife to the back from a former friend in Florence. Since then I’ve lived with blackouts…bi-product of the longevity I guess. But they’ve been increasing lately, like I’m building up to something.
But anyway, that should basically catch you up on my ancient history so we can get right into the meat of my story; the reason I’m writing this; the reason you’re reading this.
The first day of the end began like any other day for me for the last couple years of my long life. I woke up from my minimal time sleeping in my small studio apartment above an inconsequential doughnut shop outside Manhattan, New York. The apartment was practically bare, containing only my small bed, a flickering lamp, a charcoal gray BMX style Diamondback bicycle, and my strongbox filled to the brim with chicken scratch writings trying to document and understand my life (plus of course the usual plumbed commodities we’re all partial to these days). I didn’t like owning much—too much to abandon when I had to uproot and start a new life so no one could notice I never seem to age. I noticed some blood dripped on my sheet, made a notation of it in my scrambled records and began dressing. Looking back at it now I realize I should have paid even closer attention to things like that, but I think a suppressed part of me didn’t want to know why I had these blackouts. Like something deep inside of me was trying to suppress my curiosity. The same thing that subconsciously told me it was time to move…people are noticing.