“Who are you?!” the investigator demanded upon walking into the dark gray room, throwing a handful of photos on the table I was handcuffed to.

I looked at the photos. Some were old and some were from a couple of days ago. The oldest one dates back to probably the beginning of the 20^th century. There were photos of me standing next to quite a few famous people in our history. I looked at the federal investigator whom I believe was called Carl. He wouldn’t be able to begin to comprehend what the truth is if I told him who I was.

So I lied, “My name is Bart, short for Bartholomew, named after my grandfather who made a lasting impression on my parents. I was born in the year 1994 on September 14^th-”

“NO! WHO ARE YOU?! You are clearly not 24 years old if you’re featured in these photos!” He gets right in my face before continuing, “So, tell me, who are you?” He sits in the chair across from me seemingly waiting for the only answer he wants to hear.

I considered telling the truth, but what was that worth? What would it be worth if I told them that I couldn’t age after 24 years old? They’d probably lock me up in a mental facility or something like that. I looked at one of the photos on the table. I was standing next to Franklin D. Roosevelt in the White House after he’d won the presidential election for his first term. I remembered sitting down with him and he asked how I looked so young. His security trusted me so they weren’t in the room. I told him my truth and he promised to never tell a soul. He took that promise to his grave. I looked back at Carl.

“I’ll tell you everything if it’s just you and I and no one else is listening. Only us. If I get the slightest hint that someone else is listening, I will break free of these cuffs and proceed to kill each and every person that knows of this meeting,” I glanced into the eyes of every person in the room and then the cameras with the most deadly serious expression I could muster. Everyone in the room looked around at each other. Carl sat there analyzing me. He got up to leave the room and motioned for everyone to follow him. I had some pretty decent ears so I heard the high-pitched whine of electricity leaving an audio device. Shortly after, Carl reenters the room, alone.

“Alright we’re alone, I’ve disabled the audio into the room but the video feed is still running for security purposes. My superior wouldn’t let me disable it. I hope that’s alright,” he didn’t phrase it like a question as if he was essentially telling me “this is okay or I don’t care what you say is important I will drop you”.

I flipped my jet-black 60s styled hair out of my face and looked at Carl.

“Can I call you Carl? I feel better if I’m talking about my life story with someone that I could say I know.”

“Sure, if that makes you feel more comfortable telling me who you are.”

I slumped in my chair, a horrendous habit I picked up over the past almost 20 years, and prepared to tell my story.

“So, in order for you to understand me now, I have to go back to my 24^th birthday.”

“How old are you?” Carl questions me with a worried look on his face.

“In time you’ll figure it out. Now, do you wanna know who I am or how old I am because one question can be answered right now without dragging this out?” I leaned forward in my seat daring him to answer incorrectly.

“Fine. Go on.”

“On my 24^th birthday, I was driving to a friend’s dinner party. I had already done what this generation calls “pre-game” and stupidly decided driving to my friend’s was a smart idea. It was a pretty bad snow flurry and it was dark out. Of course, I had to take the back road to his house. Long story short I crashed my car. I slammed right into the back of another car and swerved into a tree. My car slowly slid off a small cliff into the lake below.

The electricity in my car jump started my heart after it had stopped me flopping all over my car causing massive internal injuries due to the fact seatbelts weren’t invented yet. I swam out of the water freezing cold and hailed another car in which the passengers immediately drove me to the local hospital. They couldn’t figure out why there was nothing wrong with me. I just lived through something horrible. They called me a miracle.

Fast forward 10 years and I’m marrying my wife. She was a journalist. She worked for a newspaper as an editor because her employer wouldn’t allow a woman to report on news that wasn't fashioned and she hated fashion. I mean, really hated it. I loved her so much. I swore she was the only woman I ever loved until my daughters were born. I had two of them.

The oldest of my kids and the youngest were both my daughters. I had 5 kids. The boys were a handful all their life. My daughters grew up strong like their mother. And my sons grew up wise.” I had to pause a moment because I was thinking of the next part of my story and I knew it was the part I hated telling. Tears tried to block my vision.

“That was 1948. In a few short years, my wife became very ill and it was discovered that there was no cure. She was going to die. Nowadays, you guys call it cancer. These tests didn’t even exist in the minds of our doctors at that time yet. My kids and I were the only ones left. We did our best. The kids stayed fed even if that meant I went hungry a couple days in a row. I began to notice that I was not aging.

I looked the same as I had when I was 24. My kids grew old and died. I buried them. I was alone. By the time, the 80s had rolled around, I was the last remaining family member of my name. Some of my kids didn’t have children while those that did have kids tried and couldn’t conceive. I had never felt so alone and lonely in my life.

I was 86 years old but I looked like I was 24. I decided that if I was going to prevent myself from getting locked up I should change my name and town every few years. It worked for a long time, but I guess I wasn’t being inconspicuous enough,” I let out a chuckle.

“Okay, so now I know your life story. That doesn’t explain why you’re in every single one of these photos.”

“But doesn’t it? I explained in a sense how old I am and yet you can’t figure out how or why I’m in those photos? I knew all those people in those photos on a personal level. I could tell you at least five things about each of them that the public has never known and won’t ever know because most of them are dead. They were my friends. FDR was my best friend. I was a pretty advanced kid and he made sure people didn’t pick on me too much. I was born in 1894. I look like I’m 24 years old, but I’m 124. I’m not immortal, I could still die, I just can’t age.”

Carl looked at me. It seemed he was trying to figure out if he believed me or not.

“I believe you. I gotta ask though. What is your real name?” he was sitting on the literal edge of his seat awaiting my reply.

I had to think for a moment, essentially traveling through time in my brain to the last time I was called by my birth name.

“My name is Charles Bartholomew. I was married to Carrie Archer. We had a wonderful life together and I haven’t loved another woman the same since.” I felt the tears blur my vision as my thoughts followed my life over the course of the last hundred years.

Carl sat back in his chair and looked to be thinking.

“I told you. You can’t handle the truth.”