A Thing I Wrote
Hey, so it's a day or two late, but I wrote something for Suicide Prevention Week. I'm posting it on FJ because people who suffer from prevention need to know that they can find help even in a face in the crowd (also because it's a good way to see how people like my writing style). Oh, and be prepared, it's a bit of a long one. Without further ado:
To Someone Who Will Care For It
The man sat down at his desk, pulled out pen and paper, and began contemplating. He delicately traced the jagged scar on his chest as he remembered what it was to feel motion there, to feel the certainty of the rhythm of his life. Now, more certain, he picked up the pen and began writing.
To Someone Who Will Care For It
The man sat down at his desk, pulled out pen and paper, and began contemplating. He delicately traced the jagged scar on his chest as he remembered what it was to feel motion there, to feel the certainty of the rhythm of his life. Now, more certain, he picked up the pen and began writing.
“My heart is missing.
“I sent it away, a long time ago, when I forgot what it meant to be happy. It was a harrowing process, but then, the surgical removal of one’s own heart could be nothing less. With a series of fine blades and saws, I cut through my ribcage, through the veins and capillaries which provided that ruddy ichor to my body, and when it was done, stitched myself back together with needle and thread. I threw it in a box and attached a note which read, ‘To someone who will care for it’ and left it in front of the post-office. No name attached, no address or destination given; all I knew was that if I kept it, it would have grown old and died alone and unhappy.
“Since then, color has left my world, and sounds which once resonated so ticklishly in my ears now are flat and dull to me. Food has no taste, and my nose which smelled the most stimulating of flowers and foods can no longer tell me what it is to smell of a pine forest. I think what I miss the most is my sense of touch, which told me of light summer breezes and freezing winter days.
“All of that is not to say that I cannot live my life unlike any other person who still has their heart. I go to work, make small talk among friends and coworkers, visit family, and even pursue romantic interests from time to time. I indulge in my various hobbies, go camping on occasion, and keep myself in shape through rigorous activity.
“Granted, those things are all much harder to do without my heart. Work seems to drain my soul from my body, and though I smile and laugh with them, I feel no joy from fraternizing with my peers, and though my family knows what I did, they don’t seem to understand that I live through repetition when I’m with them. Any romantic relationships I form seem to either die out rather quickly or become based in sex for no reason other than to try to make a meaningful connection with someone. My hobbies, things I found solace and purpose in for years, seem repetitive and boring, like passing the same cog on a gear for the hundredth time. Camping and exercise are now my excuses to be by myself, so I can be isolated from others in a physical way instead of an emotional one.
“Still, I can’t help but wonder where my heart is now.
“Perhaps someone at the post office looked into the box to see my bloodied, beating heart and called the police… or an exorcist. Or perhaps they took heed of the message after seeing the box’s contents and mailed it somewhere far, far away; maybe they did so without even looking inside.
“Maybe my heart ended up being sent across the ocean to Europe, where it was transported across the Spanish Riviera, the Pyrenees mountains, and the French vineyards. Then, over the Mediterranean to southern Italy, then North through the Alps and Germany, all the way to Scandinavia. Then, south again through Poland and Western Russia to the Arabian Peninsula, eventually crossing through into northern Africa.
“Perhaps after seeing Egypt and Ethiopia, it travelled across the Arabian sea to India, saw the Himalayan mountains on its way to China, and turned around in Japan before heading south once more to Oceania. Maybe once it got to Australia, someone sent my heart across the vast expanse of the Pacific to end up somewhere in South America, where it was eventually passed along the Andes Mountains, through Peru and Brazil, and north to Honduras, Nicaragua, and Columbia.
“I think that that entire trip would be very sad though. Despite travelling the world with my note, if my heart somehow managed to circumnavigate the globe, it would mean that along its entire journey, it wasn’t able to find anyone who wanted it. It just wandered the world sitting in that box, beating away, lonelier than ever. Now that I think about it, sending my heart away might have been the cruelest thing I’ve ever done to anyone.
“And so I write this, telling you who are close to giving up, you who are close to cutting out your own hearts for a lack of happiness or reason not to: do not send your heart away from the world as I did, for it does nothing but limit your sadness. Cruelty to others is repulsive, but cruelty to oneself is a crime of the highest order.
“I wish my heart still resided within my breast, and I long to hear its lively beat once more, but I sent it away, hoping someone else might find a way to care for it, but to do so was my own responsibility. So to you who think of neglecting that responsibility, think of this instead: the best person to take care of a heart, is the one for whom it beats.”
The man put his pen down, read over what he had written a few times, just to make sure there were no mistakes, and nodded to himself, satisfied with his work. He put away his pen and the extra sheets of paper, fingering the revolver hidden in the furthest depths of his desk drawers as he did so. He stood up from his desk, stretching his arms as he did so, for writing cramped his joints terribly.
He heard a sound. The doorbell.
Answering the door, he found himself staring down at a brown box, covered in postage from all around the world. The man picked the box up curiously, and in doing so felt a familiar thu-thump-thu-thump-ing rhythm coming from the box. On the top of the box were two notes, one written in a script very familiar to the man which read, “To someone who will care for it.”
The other note read in a flowing yet simple hand, “I did my best to find someone, but in the end, I think this little guy is better off at home.”
A woman in a postal worker’s uniform was walking away from his door, and looked back long enough to give him an encouraging smile. The man looked at the woman, then down at the box, and then up at the woman again.
For the first time in a very long time, the man smiled.
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