The first time I died, I was murdered.

I was twenty-six years old. Brown hair, blue eyes, and a broken smile that made my wife swoon. She was my childhood sweetheart and the only one I had ever been with. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for her.

It was a tale as old as time. One day I get off work from the mine a little early and come home to find my wife being fucked on our kitchen table by our neighbor's son. I'm angry, of course. I'm yelling. I'm screaming as loud as I can, though I can't remember what was said. Maybe I was just howling.

She's unapologetic, surprisingly. She's scowling. She's picking up a knife and stabbing it in my chest. Not once, but five times consecutively. The last thing I see is her bare breasts covered in my blood, and the neighbor's son reaching around to fondle it.

That was in 1897.

When I next opened my eyes, I was in a coffin confused and dressed in my finest suit. I died eleven more times in that coffin from a combination of starvation, suffocation, and dehydration before I was finally able to dig myself free. By then, three weeks had passed.

I visited my wife.

This time she was the one screaming.

I visited the neighbor's boy.

I cut off his hands first, then his head.

Then, I ran. No one suspected me because I was already dead.

I found a new job at a factory and eventually, a new wife. She was an unintelligent broad. The type that didn't ask a lot of questions. I didn't love her, but I loved the son we had together. We named him Jonathan.

Jonathan died four months later.

I got a promotion eventually and started making enough money to brag about. I bought new suits, fancy ties, and a hat that attracted attention. Too much attention. The type that makes traveling dark alleys dangerous.

I killed my muggers in self defense. There had been three of them. One not even fifteen years of age. The police blamed another man. I felt empowered by this.

Five years later my boss started asking the questions my wife should have been asking. "Where are you from?" "Why do you look not a day older than the day I hired you?"

Killing him was easy. Most factory workers had a thing or two against him. I just stuffed his half beaten body into some moving gears and watched them grind him sideways until his limbs began to clog the machine.

Next I killed his heir so I could take over the factory. People gossiped about me now. My wife was beginning to fret.

I waited ten more years and many more victims later before I killed that wife. We had been in bed together, cleaning up our mess. Pointless endeavor considering the mess I made of her blood.

By the time the police finally caught up to me, it was 1972. They knew I had killed people and even knew some of them by name. But they couldn't wrap their head around how old I was.

So they fucking sent me to prison. Maximum security, for life.

I have a private cell. I always have. There's one door, no windows, and the only person I talk to is the guard who gives me food.

"Thank you."

"Shut up, freak."

I kill myself once everyday, through many different means. Twice I have used this as a ploy to escape, but they caught me so soon. Too soon. Those moments of fresh air and trees and life... I want them back. Yet this is why the guard calls me a freak. He knows I can't die.

It is now 2015. I have killed myself more times than I have other people in my desperate attempts to free myself from this cage.

In this cell is nothing but death.