Locked In The Heart

This city, my home, has become a silhouette full of worn relics and ashes that I can only observe mournfully. Eerily the roaming silence fills the city's spaces creating this atmospheric tranquility. In truth, the world had ended within the human psyche long before it rightfully ended; the police militia became its ominous archetype. In my youth, my mother was driven dumb and aggressive from a police militia drug raid. Their beatings only sealed her troubled fate. Her worsening behavior encouraged me to escape to the streets, as a child. To this day, I never really knew if the criminal allegations were true, or just speculation. The police militia survivors fled to the country where their fates remained unknown to me. I remained because this city, as harmful as it was, was my home and would always remain my home.

A cold breeze blew past me causing me to cling to my wool jacket. Having been assaulted those first few nights on the streets as a child, I quickly adapted. Becoming a scavenger, I effortlessly found hiding places and learned to fight. These acquired skills allowed me to avoid the worst of the police militia attacks. Now with everyone gone, or so I imagined, I could create a home anywhere I chose. I’d created a migration path, with several hideouts, to keep my mind from becoming dull. Knowing it was growing late, I left the street and walked to a nearby bar that I’d fashioned into one of my cozy hideouts. I’d scavenged various items from nearby homes, and shops, and placed them within. I’d even managed to adjust one of the booths into a simple bed.

Stepping inside, I warily paused as the door closed behind me, an old habit. I gradually made my way to the back storage room and retrieved a bag of chips and a can of spam. I set the food on top of the bar top, and then walked behind the bar. I grabbed a clear glass and began filling it with water. This bar, full of food and an underground well, was a fortunate discovery.

I paused, spotting a small metal box tucked just underneath the bar. Why would someone leave this metal box behind? I bent over to collect this box of secrets. Shaking it caused its contents to clank against its walls. I tossed the metal box onto the bar top beside my dinner; uncertain if I wanted to see its contents. Someone wanted to hide their secrets, but only succeeded in bringing it to my attention, an unexpected coincidence. I didn’t know if I wanted to be privy to this metal box’s dark secrets.

Walking around the bar top with my glass of water, I wouldn’t avert my gaze from the metal box. I sat on one of the stools and began eating my dinner. As I ate, the metal box loomed in my thoughts. “Fuck it,” I stated pulled the metal box towards me. I was easily able to open the metal lid and let it thud against the bar top. Within were three bullets, some jewelry, a letter, and various pictures. The letter, written in cursive, was illegible. A golden heart shaped locket, welded shut, dangling from a golden chain caught my attention. The few pictures inside, however, painted an image of a tall, wiry, woman with a long face who appeared to be uncorrupted by the worldly chaos. Her charcoal-colored hair and 1950’s style dresses gave her an unprecedented elegance. Other pictures showed a strong arm wrapped around her, but only the arm. There was a single image of her sitting in front of a decrepit house and a dust covered yard; yet her smile endured.

Playing with one of the bullets, I kept gawking at this picture. This woman’s elegance could be mine, I thought to myself. Why should I be consumed by this loneliness, this horror? The woman in these pictures was untouchable, and I wanted to be the same. Closing my eyes, I pictured the man whose strong arm was wrapped around her. How he must’ve loved, and worshipped, her. Finishing the last of my food, I began wondering about the bullets and what sinister secret they held. I threw away my trash, set the glass in the sink, and returned the various items to the metal box, except for the heart shaped locket. I carried this locket with me to bed feeling its presence of love, comfort, and loss. Dwelling on these thoughts I drifted into a delectable sleep.

The sounds of a door opening forced me to open my eyes. I saw a bulky human shuffling around by the bar’s entrance. It removed its leather jacket and tossed it onto the floor. I could now see that this person was an older gentleman with a muscular build. He was wearing a skintight brown shirt and jeans. He had unkempt pepper colored hair and a matching beard. As he kicked off his shoes, I glimpsed various scars along his strong arms. There was a particularly large scar winding its way around his right eye and down his cheek. At first, his appearance was foreboding. Then I saw his grey eyes, as he found me, and felt overcome with sadness.

“Who are you?” He asked. I was too terrified, and stunned, to reply. He frantically looked around the bar. “What have you done with my box? What have you done?” He shouted running toward it. He threw the lid open and began searching through its contents. He took the letter and placed it into his pants pocket. “Did you read the letter?” He asked calmer, still shuffling through the items. “The lockets gone. Where’s the locket?”

Cautiously, I crawled off the bed and crept towards him. I felt the golden heart resting between my fingers. I paused a foot from him lifting my right arm, keeping the golden heart visible, in his direction. There was a long moment of stillness. “I’m Carina,” I said, quieter than a mouse. His eyes flashed anger as he pulled the locket from my weak fingers. The anger in his eyes faded. “Samael. Did you read the letter?”

I shook my head. “It’s written in cursive. I can’t read it,” I finished turning my gaze to the floor. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your memories. I found the box amongst the things I’d collected. You see, I’ve been hiding out here from time to time, and I’ve tried to make this place feel more like a home. You could probably do better things with this space.” I finished feeling the sides of my mouth curl. There was another long moment of silence. “She’s very pretty, the girl in your photographs. Was she your daughter?”

“Daughter? No,” he retorted. “She was my wife. We met as children. We were neighbors, but we lived completely different lives. She introduced me to wealth, and I introduced her to fun.” He chuckled. Watching the briefest of smiles graze his face was a welcoming sight. He shook his head. “She was murdered during the main street riots.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She was beautiful. She seemed incredibly happy.” I was finding it increasingly difficult to look upon him, or even in his direction. I didn’t want him to begin hating me, or to find me as threatening.

He nodded as his eyes scanned the bar once more. Shrugging, he disappeared into the warehouse. This must’ve meant that he’d begun to trust me. He returned with his own can of spam. We seemed to share a similar taste, in food at least. This idea made me smile. He sat at the bar to eat. I sat beside him and observed him in silence. I could be her, I thought. I can be loved like her. I felt compelled to touch him. No longer alone. Gradually, I reached out and wrapped my hand around his upper arm. He paused, staring at me blankly. Unable to gauge his actual reaction, I leaned my body against his. I could be like her. I felt his fingers curl under my chin. I did not resist as he lifted my face to look at his. He gave me a gentle kiss. He didn’t want to be alone either. I returned his favor with a longer, deeper, kiss. Unable to stop, we were both swept into a passionate chaos.

Afterward, lying beside each other, he revealed more about their tragic romance. Married shortly after school, they were trapped in between poverty and wealth. She was unable to bear any children, but it only strengthened their love. Desperate for money, he became a soldier as the riots became worse. While he was entangled with the main street riots, smaller units dispersed into the rest of the city. They raided the shelter his wife was hiding in and murdered her. He avenged her death. He ended his story by saying life always takes the things it gives, eventually.

Lying beside this broken man, I couldn’t imagine him in a soldier’s uniform. The soldier's uniform of red, black, and white always filled me with terror. I was lucky to have a hideout away from the shelters. I always felt for the survivors who had departed this city. I remember them sharing the stories of the shelter raids, the jailhouse slaughters, and the school gas bombings. This man was one of those survivors covered in visible scars. We remained in each other's company for several nights. I'd come to know him like a friend. I fell asleep, entwined in his strong arms, thinking about how long he must’ve lived carrying this sadness.

Feeling a heavy weight pressing against my stomach forced me awake. His strong arm was resting atop of me. I wiggled myself from under his arm and stood at the foot of the bed to watch him slumber. For the first time, lying there gently snoring made him appear so vulnerable. My eyes wandered around the bar until I saw his jacket on the floor. I don’t know why, but I felt inclined to place his coat onto the hanging coat rack by the entrance. It didn’t take me long to reach his jacket. Staring at it, I lifted it from the ground and felt overcome by curiosity. A person would always keep their most important items within closest reach. Searching through his pockets, I removed a gun, a folded paper, and some folded pictures. Unfolding the paper and pictures, I found a picture of the woman covered in splotches of dried blood. Her smiling face mutilated into a haunting image. There were two other pictures of two different women. Their smiles were just as haunting. The folded paper contained a few written words; I’m sorry. Why did you make me kill you?

Looking back at him, I noticed that he was also awake and monitoring me. He removed himself from the bed and sprinted towards me faster than any wild animal. In my panic, I dropped all the items and froze. “Why? Why did you start snooping around?” He shouted bending down to retrieve the gun. As he lifted it to point at me, I could see the lurking soldier within. Tears erupted from my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “I love you, and I just wanted to know.”

In a quick, effortless motion, he flipped the gun in his hands to strike its grip against my skull. Hearing a cracking sound, I began falling. I was enraptured within darkness before I’d fully landed on the floor. I was fading away in that darkness. I was forgetting all those stories, all those lonely memories. I was becoming locked within the welded heart shaped locket. But I refused to relinquish my emotions. I could be her. I could be loved like her. I gave myself over to this willing ignorance, hoping it was my surviving atonement. I just had to ask myself, would he be there when I returned?