It’s damp and misty, not in a chilly way, though. The air is warm and thick. As breathing gets too difficult, akin to swallowing, Bonnie pushes through heavy plastic sheets because it’s blurry, she cannot see what hides behind it.
Metal strings dangle from above, thin and trembling, almost humming as if they were trying to remember a song... They remind her of the old guitar in Grams’ attic, the strings on which, torn and rusty, resembled dying vines.
The sound comes ahead of sight. As she progresses further, red streams brush her toes, she smears them painting weird spirals with her feet on the white canvas of the floor, which evokes a thought — as a child she was always this curious. Color deepens, at some point her soles begin to slip.
More strings, but now here and there they are adorned, she sees. Nice, fresh hearts, livers and kidneys. So vibrant in a completely blank room. They swing gently, pendulums of soft death, yet, it feels almost festive. Like those bright paper decorations from a birthday party.
Denser. She has to push them to make way. A piece of a spleen leaves a lovely red stain on her arm. She doesn’t shy away from the organs, they don’t frighten her, not a bit, in fact, they are warm and…
They feel kind against her skin. They feel like company.
She spots him through the air. A pale blur. An almost sob catches in her throat, and she knows exactly where she is headed.
He doesn’t acknowledge her until she steps really close, right in front of him. He’s busy, so relentless and determined in his pale pink t-shirt, soaked at the hem. But his eyes are sad, sadness in them could fill up an entire sea. There’s a rusty bucket at his knees, full of warm blood-crying human organs. He takes them one by one, his touch is firm, but he makes sure not to damage soft tissue with his long fingers. Another cord hums and sways with the new weight as he ties one more piece — a heart.
It makes her wonder what his looks like, so she steals two hungry glances at his chest. And he seems to understand immediately, because he now dons a smile that is nothing but tender and condescending. Like he knows she cannot help it, he cannot deny her that. Possibly, he knew all along she might ask that of him.
So he buries his forearm in the bucket, fumbling, until it emerges back, a knife in hand.
She doesn’t — cannot — look away as he paints a slitted cross on his chest, epithelium separates easily, but he has to dig his fingers in and pry the muscle tissue apart from the bone. The sound is wet, something ceremonial about it.
There’s so much blood pouring from him, her mouth begins to salivate, because these thick ribbons running down his torso look like syrup. When the white of his ribs finally shows, her fingers twitch. She wants to pick at it. But she is shy, she stops herself. Hesitating, whether this strange delicate toy is truly meant for her. His gaze is nothing but encouragement. Go for it, it says, have at it, feast.
She starts scouring it with her nails. Before long, small pieces fall off, his rib crumbles with soft sounds like a dry old candle would. She brings her other hand up and attacks savagely, with new force.
God help him, but she looks so happy, and it’s the only thing he can think about as his body is unmade. She’s finally there, his black heart is beating tentatively, open for display. So she leans in, unable to resist the urge to have a sniff at his pulse.
It smells like pomegranate juice laced with rust. It will undoubtedly contaminate her from within. She suddenly knows that. So she leans in... and inhales again.
And maybe, just maybe, this is where his sadness comes from. So she growls and yanks the heart from his chest, leaving a hollow. And he doesn’t scream, he almost laughs but somehow the emotion is even more soaked with sorrow.
She bites her lips, thinking, searching. After a minute, when his heart is secured in his palm, she turns for one of the hanging. Plump and glistering, it now is free, and she stuffs it in the raw cavity of his chest, her eyes pleading, whispering. Try this one. Please.
But he only purses his lips and shakes his head.
Panic rises in her guts. She darts to the bucket taking out another — this one enlarged, uglied with ventricular hypertrophy. There’s barely enough room for it behind the rotten remains of his sternum.
Tears stream down her cheeks. Please fit. Please take it. Let me fix you.
No. It won’t stay. Her small palms cannot keep it in his chest.
The tears come harder now. In the end, he offers her the only thing he can give to console her — the black one, now frozen and crystallized, still bleeding dark red ink in his palm. She accepts it.
A rusty pomegranate slushy.
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