• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 08
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Hearts on sleeves

Intricately woven and irreparably stitched, the heart is a shirt.

Beating silently within the folds of skin we flaunt, this machine beats for nobody except the shirt-bearer. A shirt-bearer, it would seem, is a person who owns two hearts. One within the other. As foretold, the fake one rests lightly upon the beating one, its calm pulse quickly soothing the nervousness of the one without blood. The timely rhythm consoles the empty thing, but not entirely. It makes it wish- no, hopes that the flowing blood shall forget its way one day and jump onto its route. And when that does not happen, it takes a hiatus for a few seconds.

Which we all misunderstand to be a heart attack and resort to immediately calling an ambulance.

The real heart keeps on beating, silent yet strong. It might be disappointed for a few hours when you sleep about your undying faith to the empty one, but it never feels jealous. Jealousy is a trait it withholds with faith. This heart’s like an immortal dog- never leaves your side, besides frequently licking the insides of your arteries. So, when you think it has broken inside you as you watch the couple ahead of you walk hand in hand, it’s actually not. It seems to be merely telling you tick tock, like a clock that it shall never abandon you. Come autumn or winter, this blushing companion of yours will stand vigil with you. As long as you keep it safe and feed it blood. That’s all it ever asks of you.

But no, the fake heart listens to the whispers you coo along to the big boy and it plans. It generously takes in the space which the pumping hero has rented him. Planning takes less time within that vast place. To be honest, an empty vessel is a blood clot’s workshop and hence, it begins to beat fast upon realizing that evil is afoot. But nothing can be done for the planning has been top notch and its effects can already be seen.


Hearts on sleeves

When that big boy of yours wakes up late into the afternoon with blood and whiskey pulsing through it, there won’t be a sigh of relief for the joy of the day remaining. Rather, its sharp openings shall hear a faint noise. A snoring neighbor in bed, it seems, has taken capture of his master’s body. Tick tock, smooth as a clock shall ring the notes in its ears- but oh this time, the notes of betrayal never felt before by your heart shall enunciate within you harshly. But you…you shall not care. For that fake thing you call a heart had called upon for help at night, received it and donated the real deal away to your skinny, snoring neighbor. And one can’t claw the heart away from her fingertips, for the bitch that she is, she shall never let it go.