An Exchanging - 02: His Heart

An Exchanging

I saw his heart and,
I wanted it.

--

Everyone claimed he had a good, pure heart.

Always trying to help, they would say and smile, always trying to be the hero. They were constantly bothered by his cheerful disposition - his "lack of brains" - and foolhardy demeanor, saying things to veer him off his course of stupidity and occasionally - mayhem. And although, whenever they met his open and wide gaze, the wish of words like 'Go away' or 'Leave us alone' echoed in their minds, there was something else - something almost intangible and murky - beneath those train of thoughts,

His heart is a good one.

A heart as fake, as cold and harsh, as any other heart in the world.

It's strange, Alfred F. Jones concluded, how people only look on the outside. If his mind, usually filled with senseless ramblings and whatnots, were to take a brief respite down a place full of darkness and distortion - then he would smile and flush with a sudden and new intensity, swirling in thoughts that were not his customary ones, and revel in the way his "good" heart felt so empty, so cold.

Because people were so stupid sometimes.

Because he had seen - on a day that passed by in a blur, as countless as every day of his eternal life - that there was a heart more pure, more beautiful than his own.

He had only caught a glimpse of it once on a Conference table, had heard the nonchalant yet slightly embarrassed words of its owner, the gasps of horror that seem to spread and choke the entire room - and his eyes had grown wide with pleasure. The beating of it, light and soft - fluttery like a wounded bird trying to escape - was so alive in its own abhorrent and pulsing way. So very real, and full of life, unlike the stiff thing in his chest - unlike the stiff things in every person's chest.

This heart was the pure one.

Sometimes, when he arrived home from an exhausting and pointless day of work, he would fall to his sofa and cast a monotone gaze to the ceiling. The weak breathing of his chest would respond to a single touch - he would place a hand on it, just a little left of the center, and close his eyes to the deadness of his body. And maybe, if he was lucky enough, the change in his thoughts could take him down that warped tunnel of fantasy, to the brewing and ever-present desire of stealing and holding the one and only real heart in his hands.

Of taking it and squeezing it - until the sac of an organ collapsed and exploded in his monstrous grip. It would fill his palm with its watery and red liquid, spilling onto his shirt, his pants, the ground - and forever, he'd stand in that pool of blood.

Will you, Alfred would smile at the person, taking one step closer to the destroyed and slumped body, kill me if I -

Eat it?

Then - of course, there would be consent. Because this person - with his cold amethyst eyes - never said no to him, and even if such a thought ever crossed his mind, the idea of revenge - of retaliation - was a much more promising way of dealing with Alfred.

Smiling, the American laid his head on the arm of his sofa, one blue eye opened and the other closed. Revenge dictated something in return - Perhaps an arm. Perhaps a leg. Or perhaps a brilliant sapphire eye.

And this thought was such a - very much more - welcoming sensation than the coldness of his single, robotic heart. And this feeling was such a - very prominent and satisfying - relief from the facades of cheerful and expansive delight.

If Alfred needed it,

Then what was wrong with taking it?

Maybe,

The American mused, filled with a mounting pleasure and anticipation,

I could take one of his eyes too!

--

Epilogue:

So the next day, Ivan invited Alfred to his house, and Ivan gouged one blue eye out and was surprised when Alfred scratched his heart through his chest and onto the table and a silver plate. And although Alfred didn't get his hands on a violet eye, he still had one of his own eyes left to gaze into the counterpart, lovely amethyst depths.

End.