Tale of a Heart Thief

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young girl goes to dangerous lengths to get the heart she desperately needs.

Submitted: August 29, 2010

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Submitted: August 29, 2010

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How do you tell someone you’re sorry,
When you’ve done nothing wrong?
How can you tell a little girl about someone else,
Dying in the room nearby?
How do you explain death to that little girl,
When her mom is dead because of you?
I didn’t mean to hurt the lady.
Didn’t mean to kill her on the spot.
I just wanted a second chance, a second life.
She was just in the way.
I wanted a second spin on life,
But no one would give it to me.
Three months to live,
That’s what they gave me.
So try telling me with a straight face I’m wrong.
Wrong to want to live to see my twenty fifth birthday.
Wrong to run into that woman’s car.
Wrong to claim I had heart pains when I did.
Wrong to ask for a new heart.
Wrong to take the woman’s when it turned out she was a donor.
Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll show you my scars,
I have seven of them.
There’s one long one that goes from end to end on my waist,
Under my belly button.
It looks like a snake without a head sometimes.
Other times it looks like a narrow canyon.
There’s another that cuts behind my right ear,
That one feels like worm and looks like one too.
Then there’s one on my back,
Tracing up it like a skinny tapeworm above ground.
Then there’s four on my chest,
Three inches above my heart forming a star pointed X.
X marks the spot.
Those’re new.
New enough to hurt when I breathe.
It always hurts when I breathe,
Even after surgery.
After a week,
My body’s still trying to decide.
To kill the new kid or not to kill.
If it rejects my new heart, I might die.
If it accepts it,
Who knows what happens next.
My parents won’t want me back home.
They’re superstitious and vain.
They didn’t care about my prognosis.
They told me to deal with it.
They told me it was God’s will.
They told me it would be painless.
God’s will works in odd ways.
Really strange ways.
~*~
Of course it hurts to breathe,
Every time I sucked in a breath,
Knives stabbed my chest,
Hot irons poked my heart and sides.
If this was God’s will, he’s sick,
A sick masochistic bastard.
I told my parents that,
Straight-faced from a hospital bed.
Mom didn’t blink.
Dad didn’t inhale.
I didn’t get a ride back home that day,
I walked back.
Police found me later,
Unconsciously breathing.
Lying on my back, very still,
Eyes glazed,
Pants wet around my thighs.
They thought I was dead,
And to be honest I wished I had been.
For a week later I was back.
This time strapped to a gurney, wheeling down the hall,
Glass sticking out of my arms.
A victim of a car crash.
Innocent victim.
Those were their words.
I couldn’t find the guts to tell them.
To tell them the truth,
To tell them anything,
Tell them it was me.
Tell them I didn’t know better.
Tell them I was scared to go to jail.
I kept my mouth shut.
I let them swarm around me like bees,
Let them check my name on the computer,
Let them see my Donor ID.
You’re on the Donoree List for a new heart…
No shit Sherlock.
Well it’s your lucky day, we have a donor right now…
Wasn’t till after surgery that I learned where,
Where they got the heart.
I heard her little girl crying,
First thing when I woke up.
Her name was Katie,
Eight years old.
She looked like a china doll,
Heaving,
Staring at my chest.
Staring like her dad.
He was always right behind her, glaring at me.
Dressed like a lumberjack,
Smelled like a smoke flume.
I didn’t mind all the attention they gave me.
Sometimes I’d try talking to them.
The dad said nothing.
Katie just smiled.
Never got her to talk back to me.
They left after four days of staring me down.
Leaving a bucket of flowers in their wake.
I’m allergic to flowers,
So I had a nurse toss them.
Felt bad,
But that feeling lasted five seconds.
Unlike the pain,
That lasted for three weeks,
Pressing against my chest.
~*~
I tried telling my parents about it.
They didn’t believe me.
Now they’re regretting that,
As they sit on a patch of grass,
My grave,
Standing in front of them.


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