Imagine If Alex Turner-Cohen

Imagine if people stopped growing old?

Alex Turner-Cohen Alex Turner-Cohen

Imagine if you could live forever. Alex Turner-Cohen explores the difference between living, growing and merely existing in a world where people never age.

The cupcake was too sweet. There was icing on top and even a few rainbow sprinkles. Scrunching up my nose, I forced myself to swallow the mouthful. I placed the rest of the cupcake back inside the box and sealed it tightly. Then I pulled out a toothbrush and some toothpaste to ensure the sugar didn’t erode my molars. I started brushing. It had been almost 150 years since I’d had dessert. Usually I would never indulge in such a way but today I was in a celebratory mood. “Happy birthday to you,” I sang softly. “Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday dear Gabrielle and Amber. Happy birthday to us.” The murmur of the grass blades and the mumble of the wind was the only applause for my hesitant voice. The tune didn’t sound quite right, but after thousands of years, noone could quite remember how the original went anyway. It was my 1000th birthday. And Gabrielle’s. A millennium was a long time. The years had blurred into decades, the decades into centuries. There had been so many moments that it sometimes felt like my life was an ugly brown canvas. All the colours had mixed together, changing into one monochromatic blend that was neither remarkable nor easy on the eye. A star had collided with the earth in 52 2048. As a result, humans had absorbed some of that star’s qualities. After our 25th birthdays, we stopped getting old. We had gained the ability to last hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of years. Still, society wasn’t immortal or invincible. We could die from physical injuries and illnesses. It was very hard to reproduce. But if we looked after ourselves properly, we could live forever, the theory went. And so, I was very, very careful. It was baffling to me, to imagine a world where people had lines on their faces, where they could forget their own names and drop dead simply from old age. How archaic! Equally as baffling was the idea of retirement and pensions. To think one could stop working at a certain age? What a dream! There was no such thing as retirement anymore; to stop working was a luxury most couldn’t afford. Ever. I sat on top of a mountain. A small one, but awe-inspiring nonetheless. The city of Crescent sprawled beneath me, buildings standing tall against the horizon like tombstones in a graveyard. The sky was dreary, the sunlight weak. A lone tree clutched the mountain top itself, branches bare, clinging to some semblance of life despite all odds. Usually this was a popular tourist destination, according to the guidebook. art: @rainy_chalk

But the clouds had dissuaded most. As far as I could tell, I was alone. “It’s my birthday too!” someone squeaked behind me. I glanced behind to see a girl approaching. Well, girl wasn’t quite right. Though she looked in her early twenties, she could easily be thousands of years older. Other than a slightly freckled face, and yellowish teeth, there was no clue as to her true youthfulness (or lack thereof). “Ahh, so you’re a fan too,” I replied. I held out my copy of the guidebook, titled Putting the ‘Live’ Back into Alive: Finding new purpose in the same old world. The book was a bestseller. It claimed to “ignite a new spark of passion and enjoyment in young and old readers alike” and had recommended this mountain as a solitary birthday destination. As I had no-one to spend my birthday with, the suggestion had been perfect. The girl nodded, “It’s just so lovely here,” She said.“Hopefully it doesn’t storm,” I replied. “I wish I’d brought an umbrella.” Clearly she didn’t care about a little rain because she responded with a non-sequitur. “I turned the big 1-0-0 today.” She spoke as if I should be impressed. “100,” I mused. “So you’re a young one then. I remember the days when I was only a century old. I’m 1000 today, you see.” Even though I was 900 years older, we looked scarcely a day apart. “Wow!” She looked at me with newfound respect. “So what’s the secret to longevity?” I supposed it was still rare, to find someone in society who had lived so long. Many succumbed to common deaths such as car accidents, heart attacks and kidney failure because of unhealthy or hazardous lifestyles. But not me. “It’s quite simple, really,” I said. “Don’t take any risks.” I decided to impart a bit more wisdom upon this young soul, adding: “Don’t get in the car if you can help it — get a train or walk places. Never fully trust machines. Don’t eat red meat — it can cause heart attacks. Exercise everyday. Don’t do drugs or alcohol. And finally, don’t get too attached to people because they’ll always let you down.” I sucked in a breath. If only I’d been able to give that advice to my twin sister Gabrielle, all those years ago. I added one final warning: “The first 100 years is probably the best. After that, everything gets a little less… colourful.” When I was younger I‘d been more laid back.

I’d been driving somewhere with Gabrielle. The funny thing is, to this day I can never remember where we were going. Before we could reach our mystery destination, a driver hit us headon. I was in the passenger seat and by some miracle was largely unscathed. It was Gabrielle who got the brunt of the impact. She’d been in a coma for 912 years. Ever since then, I was a little more careful. Because I couldn’t think of anything worse than becoming like Gabrielle, a bag of bones in bed. The young woman and I looked down at the city from our vantage point. The sky blackened. The colour drained from the world, as if we were in a black and white film. And suddenly I felt it. Droplets. At first it was a tiny patter, but it grew stronger and swifter. A storm. Rain pummelled us and the city far below. We ran for the tree. A drip of water got between my collar and my skin, the cold liquid oozing down my back.“We have to get out of here,” I said. “We could get pneumonia or worse.” And that was when it happened. Lightning. A fist of electricity struck the tree. It caught fire. We screamed. I remembered something I’d learned in school, all those centuries ago. Lightning always hits the highest point. And right now, that was us. “Run!” I shouted to the woman. She needed no more encouragement. I ran. Rather than taking the meandering path down the mountain, I took the steepest and most direct route to safety. I headed for the visitor centre, the only safe place for miles around. But it was almost at the bottom of the mountain. Rain pounded me. Yet I felt nothing, no coldness, no wetness. Not even fear. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, pumping and spluttering, fuelling my legs to run so fast. Only I wasn’t running, not quite. The better way to describe it would be mountain surfing. I slid down the slope, my feet gliding over the ground. I surfed an ocean of rocks. Lightning struck the mountain randomly, sparks flying, flashes of white lighting the darkness. I felt the vibration of each impact. It was a game of Russian roulette — choosing the wrong spot meant death. I finally reached the visitor centre. The 100-year-old was close behind. I realised I wasn’t even panting. It had taken two hours to walk up the mountain. Only five minutes to run down. “Oh my goodness, are you two okay?” the man at the counter asked, seeing our sodden clothing and rattled expressions. 53