The Heirloom

Every family has an heirloom- not the traditional type that is passed down from eldest to eldest or mother to daughter- but to the most worthy of the next generation. It was supposed to make for a more career-oriented, successful society. And it did.... but unfortunately, successful careers don’t make for conscientious living or content people. The heated competition burned everything in its path. Those deemed unworthy were left scorched by the wayside, most depressed and in despair- and steralized. The successful were not left unscathed, though- the ever elusive goal of ‘successful enough’ frozen into their minds.

And the landscape gradually mirrored this drastic contrast- everything either frozen or scorched. Spring and Autumn are concepts from the past. The Summer heat more intense every year, the Winter winds blinding, but the Winter stillness leaving you unable to draw a breath without coughing. We can’t last like this for much longer.

My friend’s family has a slightly different idea of success. They are humanitarians. Their family has a legacy of aid workers, nurses, and teachers. Because of this, their heirloom is a heart-shaped locket, worn around the neck of the most recent recipient. My friend’s father currently wears it. Although he is almost completely blind, he spent his ‘seeing years’ teaching and loving people in a manner that left people with hope- a green spot in a bleak world.

His love for people was unbridled, which could be a bit awkward sometimes. But at least he wasn’t one of those ‘toxic masculine’ types. His daughters’ friends never felt afraid around him. He married his best friend, and was truly heartbroken when she died. In his grief, he started changing everything- not exactly a safe course of action for a man who is practically blind. He started taking walks in the woods, what was left of them. He knew his way by the feel of the trees. He knew each one by touch. But we still occasionally accompanied him.

This was one of those days.

It was burning cold, so my friend and I were collecting wood to burn. We weren’t the only ones- we crossed paths with many of the Scorched, gathering both for warmth and for selling to the Frozen few, who could afford to buy.

We scraped around, picking up frosted branches, always keeping an eye on my friend’s father. He would stop and speak to various Scorched children- illegal by their very existence- always drawing out a laugh and leaving their parent encouraged.

Suddenly, I realized that I hadn’t heard his voice in a while. Then I heard it, but panicked... My friend and I followed the sound, to see a Scorched in search of wood, crossing a clearing- an obvious dark spot amidst the flat of snow. Then we heard the crack. The clearing was actually a pond, and my friend’s father knew it.

And he started out toward the Scorched, long branch in hand.

The Scorched stiffened in sheer panic as the ice continued to crackle beneath her. I could tell, she didn’t know which way to go- which way was the quickest to safety.

And still, my friend’s father lumbered closer.

I took a deep breath, looked at my friend, and followed.

“Come back this way,” my friend’s father called. He could discern the vague form of the person because of the contrasting dark against white, but distance was illusive.

He continued on, closing the short distance between them. But I was faster. And much lighter.

We reached her at the same time.

Well, almost.

My friend’s father couldn’t judge the distance, and plowed into her, replacing her on the shattering ice. Just in time for it to give way.

And he went under.

But the branch he had grabbed to help reach the Scorched woman caught on the edge of the ice.

And it held him.

For just

long

enough

for us to grab his arm

and haul him out.

The Scorched woman and I dragged him rapidly back to the shore- the ominous crackling chasing us the entire way.

Now out of immediate danger, I checked on him.

Faint pulse.

No breath.

As my friend hovered nearby, I adjusted his head, gave him three breaths, and started chest compressions.

I heard the cartilage crack as I gave it my all.

My friend winced with each one.

Three more breaths.

As I started into the next set of compressions, my friend braced themself.

And then their father started vomiting- cold and black spewing straight from his airway, all over my hands.

I ripped the front of his shirts away so my hands wouldn’t slip.

Another compression.

Another crack.

He breathed.

My friend rushed over.

His eyes fluttered open, only to reveal white.

He breathed again.

And again.

His eyes focused as my friend moved in closer so he could see them.

I started rubbing his arms to draw the blood into his extremities, my hands still stinging from the force of the compressions.

“Take it,” he rasped.

“What?”

“The. locket. You are. worthy.”

My friend reached for the heart-shaped locket.

“No,” he turned his head toward me. “You.”

I hesitated.

I noted the blood starting to seep from around his eyes and leaking from his ears.

My friend nodded to me.

I removed the locket from around his neck.

He shuddered, smiled, whispered his wife’s name, and was gone.

“I. I. I’m so sorry,” I stuttered- not sure whether I was apologising to my friend or their father.

My friend shivered, drew a breath, and, “it’s Death. His heart couldn’t be frozen in life.”

I go to hand my friend the locket.

“No, it’s yours- he passed it down to you.”

“Must have been a mistake,” I said. “There’s no way he would have been able to tell the difference between us in his... state...”

I put it in my friend’s coat pocket.

“You’ll be able to wear it when you’re ready.”

As my friend turned back to their father, I noticed one of my hands was still stinging. I pulled it out of my pocket to see if I had broken it.

To my surprise, it was burned. The impression of the locket, freeze-burned into my palm. It must have happened while I was giving him the chest compressions.

I smiled to myself- it was too cold for tears. My friend’s father got his way.

I will carry the mark of an heirloom to the end of my days... it’s too bad I can’t pass it on.