I am going to reveal my true age to you: I am 200 years old. My girl's appearance hides it very well, but I've lived for a good 200 years. All the bones in my fragile body ache, even the tiny ones in my pinkies. My joints feel like rusty old hinges. I am tired to death, but too tired to die.
A constant weight on my back burdens the last bronchus in my chest and I cannot breathe without a painful effort. My eyes look without seeing, they are tired of seeing always the same. I cannot move my neck an inch, and my throat is so dry, that I don’t ever feel like talking. Things haven’t changed much in these 200 years.
Nights slip away and I don’t get any respite. My eyelids are so stale they won’t close; they are bored of their duty, as every part of my body is. I’ve grinded my teeth to the bone, and if my mouth could hold a bite, my palate would refuse to taste flavors it cannot discern anymore.
Each day I begin, my 200 years will creep up my back without a warning.