Fiction
By John Everson

Sirius Visions"Hard Heart"

Originally published in Sirius Visions, November 1994.
Reprinted in Vigilantes of Love, April 2003.

 

 

Tricia tugged at the heart on her sleeve. Her face twisted in a wrinkled complaint, but after awhile, it came loose, ripping from her arm with a sound like velcro separated under water. She held the heart with pincer fingers, avoiding its clumsy pulsing attempts to reattach itself.

“Would you take this?" she asked the boy sitting at the other end of the bench from her. "I don’t want it anymore.”

His name was Mark, and his sleeve was not marred by any such organic accoutrement.

Mark fingered the back of his head. “It’s kind of gross,” he noted quietly. “But it’s also kind of cool. Sure, I’ll take it.”

Tricia surrendered the drippy organ to the soft-spoken boy. She’d seen him sulking around school a lot, and earlier had decided he’d be just the kind of sucker who’d accept the harness of a heart. Let him, she thought, watching him toy with the steadily throbbing muscle. It climbed up his arm, a centimeter at a time, coming to rest just above the elbow. She felt a strange hollow pain her chest and throat when she saw a smile cross Mark’s face. Determined to enjoy her new freedom however, Tricia skipped away, leaving her heart in the hands of a newly grinning boy.

* * * * *

Tricia thought she’d be ecstatic about getting free of the heart on her sleeve, but the farther she got from the bench where she’d left it, the slower her steps became. It had been a burden, she reminded herself — always announcing to people it was there, making it difficult to blend into a crowd, getting her into trouble in school and with her parents through its compulsions — she was much better off without it. But as she answered the bell to return to class, her face hung listless, her arms dangled limp as muslin drapes in a house with no windows.

“Hey Trish — you wanna come over today after school?” a voice called from behind. She turned to meet its owner. Sally Ketchal, the most annoying kid in class. Tricia had found eloquent excuses for not going home with Sally a hundred times this year, but now she found her mouth dry of words. Instead, she shrugged and nodded. Yes.

“You will?” Sally squeaked. Tricia winced inside, but said nothing. “Great. We can play Barbies and maybe my sister will make brownies and . . .”

Sally chattered beside her all the way to class, but Tricia didn’t hear a word. In Tricia’s head, over and over, she listened to the slurping, tearing, horrible sound of the heart leaving her sleeve — and wondered why it had taken her choices with it.

Math class seemed to drag on for just about forever to Tricia. And then something strange happened: Mark Fisher actually raised his hand and answered a question. She didn’t recall ever hearing him speak in class before. And when he did, she saw her heart — now his heart — beat faster in satisfaction.

That night, Tricia tried to remember why she had thought giving away the heart would be a good move. From the moment it had left her arm, she’d felt empty — and bad things kept happening to her. First, Mrs. Engelbright had called on her in class and she hadn’t been able to spit out the answer — as everyone around her smirked and whispered. Then she’d had to endure the inane prattling of Sally all afternoon because she couldn’t seem to open her mouth and say no — a problem that no one would ever have ascribed to her before. And then, to top it off, she’d gotten grounded for being late to dinner, and instead of wheedling her way out of it as usual, she’d glumly accepted her punishment (as her parents passed each other sideways glances of shocked surprise).

Mom had lectured her over and over about not speaking her mind to any and everyone, but Tricia had now come to the conclusion that saying what she thought was tons better than keeping your heart locked up inside all the time. Lying in bed with tears dampening her pillow, Tricia decided she would get back her heart, loud obnoxious ornament that it was. Without it, she felt as free as a lion in a cage.

* * * * *

If Tricia was learning the look of bars, Mark was experiencing the first taste of the fruits of the jungle. He had always been a quiet boy — the kind of kid that teachers love for their silent studiousness, the kind of kid that gets picked on by their peers without ever voicing a complaint. Consequently, Mark had no close friends — it’s hard to make friends if you can never find the nerve to talk to anyone. But now, with one hand absently stroking the comforting weight on his arm, he chatted and gabbed to everyone: his teachers, the guy behind the counter at All-Action Comix, and then in the back of the comic store, Tom Harris.

“Hi Tom!”

Tom Harris looked up from the rack in surprise. It was that dweeby quiet kid — Mark Fisher. What could he want?

“Have you seen those Anne Rice comics they’ve got about that vampire? They’re really cool.”

“Yeah,” Tom responded with just a hint of reticence. “I’ve got ‘em all.”

“No way,” Mark continued, oblivious to Tom’s leave-me-alone look. But Mark’s newfound voice was infectious, and the Anne Rice series was one of Tom’s favorites. Soon they were interrupting each other in excitement over their mutual interest. Somehow, by the end of the day, they were fast friends.

* * * * *

The following day at lunch recess, it was Mark who found Tricia sitting silent on the bench outside, but their positions weren’t totally reversed — he was not there to trade away his newfound heart.

“How ya doing?” he asked with a cheer Tricia remembered once being her own. “OK,” she replied, but her eyes seemed faraway. Inside her ribs a voice was yelling, “I’m horrible, I want to scream, I want to cry and I can’t open my mouth! Please, please help me.” But she only smiled sadly.

“Are you still glad you gave this to me?” he asked a little guiltily, pointing at the bright blob on his arm. He didn’t want to give it back, but he knew it must be pretty valuable. This was a very forward question for Mark, but he felt good asking it.

Tricia nodded affirmatively, but Mark noticed the gleam in her eyes. She looked away, but not before he saw the tear tracing a slick path down her cheek. He wanted to turn and run. His heart skipped a beat. She did want it back. He wanted to shut his mouth and look no further into this. But he couldn’t hide from what he knew — not with this heart on his sleeve. It seemed to push him at the girl. Instead of retreating, he sat down next to her.

“You want this back, don’t you?” he said. She shook her head “no” again, but he pressed on. “Without it, you’re just like I was, aren’t you — can’t say anything, can’t do anything — nobody sees you.” She looked at him with a funny expression. “Yes,” she said, her voice trembling at the effort of admittance.

“I don’t ever want to be like that again,” Mark said, thinking of all the times his face had reddened as he fled in angry impotence from the taunts and jeers of the other kids. Of all the times his parents had stood behind him nudging him forward, forcing him to stand in the middle of groups of people he only wanted to run and hide from. Of all the times he’d heard adults say things that he KNEW were just flat wrong, but his mouth had remained locked shut. And then he smiled as a possibility came to him. It risked everything he’d gained in these short 24 hours, but if it worked . . . “Maybe . . . Maybe we could share it,” he suggested. Tricia looked puzzled, and Mark slid closer to her on the bench, and then closer still, until their forearms touched.

She started to move away, her eyes widened, but got stuck at the end of the bench. She huddled into the corner like a trapped possum, her butt sticking out into air, the rest of her pinned to the bench by the armrest.

“What?” she whispered.

And then Mark’s shoulder mushed against hers, and she felt a familiar grip on her arm. Her body was suddenly suffused with warmth, with strength, with ... life! The scared lines vanished from her face, replaced by the sparkle of freedom returning. Tricia felt her tongue loosen, her mind expand, her limbs lighten. But with the joy came concern; she didn’t want to sentence this boy to live in the quiet pit forever. She saw his face subtlely darkening, his lips clenching, and she realized what taking back her heart would mean to the boy. She couldn’t do this to him. Not even if it meant her own imprisonment. Placing a hand on his skinny hard chest, she closed her eyes and shoved.

 

When he pushed his shoulder against hers, Mark felt the vibrant energy draining from his arm and he was suddenly afraid. He didn’t want to give up the heart, he didn’t want to be the cowed, quiet loser that everyone ignored again, a boy trapped within himself. He wanted to pull free of the girl, keep the heart to himself. But then he reminded himself that the heart was hers, and if it wanted to go back to her, then he couldn’t keep it prisoner on his own arm — he understood the feeling of being trapped too well, and he saw in the lightening of her face that the heart was even now keying Tricia’s inner lock.

Mark felt his tongue tightening and inwardly cried: No, don’t take away my voice again! but then Tricia’s hand was on his body, pushing him backwards, separating their heart-joined arms. With a rush of indrawn air, he felt their connection cut, and the playground spun dizzily before his eyes. He blinked, twice, forcing the world to slow its divebombing attack on his senses.

Mark shook his head to clear the cobwebs and saw Tricia doing the same. And then, at the same moment, eyes wide, mouths open in surprise, each raised a finger to point at the others’ arm.

There, above each of their elbows, throbbing contentedly, perched a glowing red beating heart. They were smaller by far than the single heart the boy and girl had passed between them, but that didn’t matter.

Mark felt his tongue was tighter perhaps than it had been an hour ago, but certainly more free than before he had taken the quivering piece of clutching meat Tricia had offered him yesterday.

Tricia came to a similar conclusion and smiled. Reaching slowly across Mark’s lap, she took his hand. The heart on his arm beat faster. Hers quickened visibly in response.

“Maybe I won’t get in so much trouble now that it’s smaller,” she mused.

“Maybe they’ll grow,” he answered.

Hand in hand, neither yelling nor sulking, they answered the bell signalling the end of recess.

THE END