Matters Of The Heart

Magic has always existed in small ways.

To understand my story, you have to believe in magic, as corny as that sounds. Even a cynic like me has learned to believe in magic, or at least depend on it. A little luck here and there, coincidences, miracles. A student passing a test they didn't study for, your crush liking you back, a single mother somehow scraping enough money together to send her child to baseball camp and pay her rent that month. This type of magic goes unnoticed, or labeled as something else. Magic has always existed in tiny ways. Plain fact.

Then there is the other type of magic, the type that is a little less neglectable. Magic that gives certain people incredible gifts, whether or not they realized it. The type of magic that gives a singer that vocal edge, that plunges them to stardom. The type of magic that gives your favorite athlete their signature prowess while playing or gives your favorite actress the emotional depth to capture the hearts of millions through a screen. They would play it off as simply being talented, and most are just that. But then there are those few who feel different, the ones who play it off, the ones who know deep down inside that they are not ‘simply talented’.

And then there is the final type of magic, the type that affects a select few, that imbues seemingly insignificant objects with otherworldly powers. Those people who are always “in the wrong place at the wrong time”. Those that keep to themselves, those that have a piece of jewelry they always wear or keep with them. A ring, a brooch, a pendant—or in some cases, a gold-plated heart-shaped locket attached to a necklace— that you would normally overlook but for some reason are drawn to. That is the magic that should be feared the most. This magic is hidden to the world, or at least it was until what I like to refer to as The Incident. Oh, and it was my fault. But that's for later in the story.

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As a kid, when my grandmother gifted me with a heart-shaped locket and told me it was there to protect and help me, I thought she was kooky—a strong sentimentalist at best. But I kept it with me for less than modest reasons. Quite simply, it was gorgeous. It held an unmistakable iridescence; gold in the light, yet if you turned it just the right way, deep hues of green and purple became visible. When opened, you would expect a picture of a loved one, but what I saw was something entirely different. On one side, the locket held some kind of red liquid set in place. It looked like a resin, the way it managed to catch the light perfectly. It was translucent and opaque at the same time. It was captivating enough to distract me from what was on the other side, an inscription that I now view as the most crucial part. It read ‘tumi te se kosua’ which registered with nothing in me. I showed it to my grandmother and asked what it meant.

My grandmother laughed and reached for a journal on the shelf behind her. “Ivy, you must learn more about your heritage. You are the daughter of two immigrants; all they could hold on to when they moved here was their heritage.” She opened the journal and flipped to a page with different symbols and descriptions. She pointed to a symbol that resembled an egg and explained, “Tumi te se kosua: Power is like an egg. The egg is delicate, fragile. If you squeeze too hard or handle it too rough, you end up with a broken shell and egg all over your floor.”

The delicacy of power? At the time I ignored her words, they meant little to me. I was more focused on the locket and it's charm. I attached it to a golden chain I had and wore it as a necklace. I was sure to get attention, and for a while I did. Boys told me how much it complimented my ‘immense beauty’ and girls begged me to tell them where I bought it. I showed it off as a custom-made piece. It went with everything I wore. It became a place of solace for me. I would hold it when I was nervous, rub it when I was thinking hard about a topic. My attachment to the locket grew. It felt like if I wasn't wearing it, my heartbeat slowed down. So I wore it often. My good luck charm, my edge, my belle of the ball piece.

I used to think that if I spoke while holding the locket, my words would come true. I had no idea how close I was to the truth. When I wore it, it felt like I could hear thumping sounds. Little hearts beating. With each person I spoke to, the thumping sound changed pace, slower or faster. Whenever a particularly rude girl in class spoke unkindly to me, I would instinctively touch my locket. All of a sudden, she would have a red look on her face, or start to breathe weirdly. It would feel like blood was rushing to my head, and the thumping sound would fasten. Thump, thump, thump. I thought it was me imagining how she felt. But the more it happened, the more I questioned it. I began testing it out, just to see if I was crazy. I would tell people the most bizarre news just to feel the change in thumping noises. I thought I was certifiably insane.

As time went on, I went from touching my locket to feel someone’s emotions to touching it when I wanted them to feel a certain way. I didn't think much of it, but I did it more and more. That was before The Incident.

The summer between junior and senior year, my parents made me get a job. To build a 'work ethic', they said. There weren't a million job opportunities in my microscopic Milwaukeean town. What in the world made my parents want to move here? I ask myself that question often. I ended up working at The Swinlow Family Diner. It was the spot where all the teens hung out, families grabbed a bite together, that and more. But come nightfall, the creeps came. The ones who liked to point out how my body looked in my red uniform (which I always found oddly skimpy), the ones who liked to call me to their booth for the most frivolous things. Most of them were harmless, or moreover, lonely. But there was this one customer who was determined to make my life miserable: Al.

Al was one of those horrible guys who drove around in a tired rusted beater truck that heaved it’s last breath every time he revved the engine. The ones who licked their lips after every sentence. The type of guy who couldn’t care less what he looked like. The type of guy who hasn’t worn real clothes since he discovered wife beaters and blue jeans. Teeth brown, rotten to the nub. And he was comfortable that way. He made his fun by calling me over to get him things like an extra spoon or talking my ear off about the girls he used to ‘charm out of their pants’ when I asked him what he wanted to order. He repulsed me. I always made sure to switch sections with my male coworkers when he showed up. He, as sad as it sounds, was my downfall.

One night, the diner was particularly busy. Too busy. He strolled in, right as I got off of my break. Great. I look over and see all the other workers preoccupied. I walked over to find him waiting for me with a devious toothy grin.

“Well hey darlin’, I ain’t seen you in a while. What, you been avoidin' me?”

“Good evening and welcome to the diner! What can I get you?” I replied graciously.

He tried to turn the conversation. “How 'bout you pull up a seat so we can chat?”

I told him I would give him some time to look over the menu. As I turned around, he seized my arm and pulled me back. I panicked, he’d never gone so far as to get physical with me. I immediately pushed him away, and he sneered. “You know you want to have some fun, stop playing hard to get!”

I slapped him, to my own shock. Woah. I was frozen. I didn't think I would ever do that. At this point, the entire diner was silent and staring. I even saw a few people recording. As soon as I had regained my senses, I moved to apologize, but he stared up at me with a menacing glare. Then things took a turn for the worse. He lunged at me, suddenly filled with an intoxicated rage. I moved back, bumping into another table just to have him crashing after me. Off I went, my only goal to escape this new, furious side of Al. Dodge, run. Duck, scamper. I fled into a corner as people began to move to block him from getting to me. I grasped my locket, hoping to calm myself down. But something entirely different happened.

It was like flipping a light switch. In a matter of seconds, he had ended his pursuit and clutched his chest, his face pained. He looked like he was having a heart attack. I could feel his anguish. I felt like vomiting, but I was more concerned for him. He was on his hands and knees, wheezing, and ears red. I clutched the locket tighter. I wanted this to stop. I wanted it all to stop. Stop, Stop, Stop.

And that's what happened. His heart stopped. Completely. He dropped to the floor as my hands flew to my mouth in horror. What did I just witness? A lady from a nearby table took to the ground and started performing CPR and a man from another called an ambulance. But that is not where the terror ended. As if on cue, my locket began to glow, like it was invigorated by the chaos that had ensued. Its shine intensified, not only in color but in temperature. It burned. Hotter, hotter. It felt as if it was etching itself into my skin. It took on a beaming red hue and got brighter and brighter until it was impossible to look at. I was paralyzed to stop it. All I could do was scream. Whether I was screaming for help or mercy, I'm not sure. A beam shot out and hit Al straight in the chest. The lady who was giving him CPR moved back for safety. It was as if the beam was draining him, as if the locket was draining the color from his face. As he turned more and more lifeless, the locket shone brighter. My ears were completely filled with the sound of thumping hearts. Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump.

That's when I passed out.

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That was six months ago. The world has gone into war mode. I caused it all. That day I woke up to people screaming. I ran in fear. It was me. I killed him. The video from The Incident found its way onto the internet, causing mass hysteria. Anarchy rose, governments fell. The only conclusion people could come to: magic. People started questioning the possibility of magic. And then that's when the others came forward. People claiming they could do things with rings that were passed down to them, birthmarks that gave them powers. Some of the claims were real, most not. That's also when people started going missing, only causing more disarray. Who is taking them, I still don't know. But I’m going to find out, I have to. I have to.