Surgeon of Hearts, or Sculptor of Life?

Doctors said he was a magician, wielding a scalpel over a traditional wand. Rivals claimed he sold his soul to the Grim Reaper for his gift of repelling death. Patients asked if he was a reincarnated version of their saviors. His family gushed as they bragged about his unique ability to repair what’s broken since diapers. The retired cardiovascular surgeon now resides in the country, content with his only company being the sun's warm rays shining through the window panes of his studio. Rather than cutting, he now spends his days molding clay with his palms, crafting ceramic hearts so life-like that customers claim if you stare for long enough, you’ll catch one of his pieces beating. 

He works six days a week without rest, the surgeon has never been able to relax. His hands must always be slicing or molding, stitching or scoring, repairing or creating. When Sunday comes, he dusts himself off before making his way down to the local antique shop to sell his creations, as there’s no longer enough room in his studio to store them. The shopkeeper always purchases them, as the surgeon's art is popular among both locals and travelers given the entrancing effect of the hearts. Each week, the quality of each heart grows more realistic, yet the surgeon never increases his already low price tag for the sculptures. This generates a higher profit for the shopkeeper, who can fluctuate the prices based on the demand and quality of the hearts, which both continually escalate. 

Today is Sunday, so the craftsman is required to wash up and make his weekly appearance at the downtown antique shop. It’s his least favorite part of the week. The second he’s noticed on the sidewalk, townspeople, as well as other store owners, flock to him. The store owners crave his business, while the townspeople are eager for his secrets. He speaks to no one as he makes his way to the antique store of a most smug shopkeeper, who lets the surgeon in before business hours, and locks the door behind him.

“Well, someone sure is popular!” The shopkeeper prods. The surgeon doesn’t respond, as the shopkeeper's ego is easily overinflated. Because the surgeon has chosen this antique shop over the rest of the town’s stores, the shopkeeper considers himself superior to everyone else. Though the humble surgeon is averse to this type of behavior, he’s also averse to spending more time than he has to in the town, so he refuses to find another shopkeeper to bargain with.

“Aw c’mon, don’t be so glum.” The shopkeeper tells the surgeon while jabbing him with a large elbow. “Today’s a beautiful day to do some business, wouldn'tcha agree?” The surgeon nods, as if cued. “Great! Our hearts have this town in a chokehold!” 

The surgeon’s eager to be back in his studio to take notes on how to improve for next week's creations, so he’ll do whatever he needs in order to get away from this shopkeeper's meaty hand that now claps the surgeon's shoulder, even if it means letting the shopkeeper have some credit for the surgeon’s creations. Before they can head back to the office, someone bangs on the glass door. Both men startle, causing the shopkeeper's hand to leave the surgeon’s shoulder, much to the surgeon’s relief. The person at the door is an older woman, looking disheveled and infuriated, carrying only a crinkled paper bag with her.

“We’re closed, lady!” The shopkeeper yells louder than is necessary for the lady to hear him, making the surgeon wince. 

“You think I care?” The lady screams at him through the glass. “You best let me in before I shatter this glass, I won’t keep this cursed object in my possession any longer!” The shopkeeper shakes his head, making eye contact with the surgeon as he brings his finger to the side of his forehead, making a gesture to imply the woman at the window is loony, before moving to unlock the door for her.

“Look ma’am, none of our items are cursed or anything of the sort, also I’m sure you’ve seen the sign at the door, there is absolutely no refunds-”

“I don’t need a damned refund!” The lady replies, forcing a paper bag into the shopkeeper's hands. “I refuse to keep this object of the devil on my property, regardless of whether I’m refunded or not.” The lady makes her way from the store as swiftly as she could for her old age, reciting prayers as she exits through the glass doors, as she makes her way down the road, up until she’s reached the front door of her own home. 

As the surgeon squints at the bag from where he’s standing, he notices the bag appears to be beating. The door closes behind the lady, and the shopkeeper takes the contents from the bag, revealing a heart familiar to the surgeon. The heart presented to him was one he'd made just last week. This sculpture in particular was one of his hardest to let go yet, due to its perfection, both inside and out. After he began sculpting the hearts to be anatomically correct, there’d be moments where he’d thought he’d feel a beat as he held them, but he’d always assumed it was a subconscious urge to return to the operating room. But now, as the shopkeeper holds the surgeon’s work in front of him, he can see that he’s created a living organ. Its hue is brighter than he remembered it being, but perhaps his excitement has made the creation seem more vibrant than it actually was. 

A bead of sweat rolls down the shopkeeper’s big pale face, his mouth agape and speechless for once in his life. The surgeon places down the box of this week's creations, and cups his hands around the heart, cradling it. It can’t be beating more than fifty beats per minute, so it wouldn’t be compatible with a human organism, yet. But if he made a few alterations, would it be?

“Now, I don’t know what you’ve been playing at, Doc, but it ends here.” The surgeon's eyes, wide, dart up from the beating heart to the shopkeeper, whose face is as bright as a tomato. The shopkeeper is so angry, steam practically shoots from his ears, as it would in a cartoon. “If you think I’m going to continue distributing whatever Houdini, dark magic work this is, you're mistaken. If I ever get another complaint such as this, you won’t be gettin’ anymore of my business, y’hear?” 

The surgeon nods vigorously, too excited about the heart to care about the shopkeeper’s business, not that he needs it anyway. He’d only initiated it to make room in his workspace, but it’s become more trouble than it's worth. The surgeon walks out the doors, forgetting all about the other box of hearts he’d left in the middle of the floor. The shopkeeper yells after him, but the surgeon has already decided that this discovery is more pressing than resolving things with a shopkeeper he’s indifferent to, at best. 

The surgeon spends the next week in his studio, examining, replicating, repeating. Determined to recreate the beating effect, but to no avail. As the week comes to a close, the beating of the heart, that had been slowing since the surgeon received it, finally thrums to a stop. It’s grayer now than the day it was handed back to him, alive. The surgeon, in a fit of rage, tears apart his studio. Of course, he’d never expected to create a functioning human organ, at least, not until he was handed back a beating heart he knew was born from his hands. Just how was that heart beating? He couldn’t decipher the cause before the organ had failed, meaning he’s failed. The following week he spends dwelling, not laying a finger on any of his instruments, but still lingering in his studio. He spends most of his days staring at the corpse of his mysterious feat, sulking his inability to replicate its flame. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he should’ve spent his time nursing it. Maybe, if he were just a tad more brilliant, he’d have been the first man to craft a human heart from scratch. It’s his house phone ringing that rips him from his self wallowing. 

He decides not to answer it, he’s laying down on the floor, the dead heart propped on his desk in perfect view. The perfect view for reminiscing the way holding it had felt like being teleported back into surgery. The phone rings, and rings, and rings some more. The surgeon caves, relinquishing his place on the concrete, warm from his body heat. He winces, realizing how the spot would be cool by the time he returned to it. He rips the phone from the hook, irritated, letting the other line speak. 

“About time you’ve picked up, y’bastard!” It’s the shopkeeper, of course. Likely calling to reprimand the surgeon for ghosting him two weeks in a row. The surgeon is about to hang up, but the shopkeeper’s next words were not what the surgeon anticipated hearing. “That damned lady croaked a few days ago, and customers have been returnin’ beating hearts back to my store left and right! At this rate, my place’ll be a ghost town, I’ll have to go out of business!” The surgeon doesn’t say anything. The shopkeeper doesn’t give him room to get a word in anyways, regardless of whether he’d wanted to speak or not. “Everyone ‘round town is sayin’ your hearts are suckin’ the life outta people! What exactly are you, Doc? I’d heard stories about your ‘hot shot’ surgeon career, but they’d all said you was a miracle worker. Got sick of savin’ lives didja? Had to resort to stealin’ ‘em, huh? Well not mine! Why, ain’t you just a-” 

The surgeon slams the line back down on the hook. What on Earth is that shopkeeper carrying on about? Stealing lives? How could that be possible? If this was what the townspeople believed, it was about time he skipped town before they came after him. He grabs his tool bag, shoving in the tools and notes that are scattered on the floor from his rampage. Lastly, he places his heart into the bag. He reaches for the handle of the door, but as he opens it, he’s met by two men in black suits. The surgeon’s studio is tucked into the backyard of his mansion. He can see a sleek limousine parked out on the road, presumably where the two well-dressed men have come from.

The first man greets the surgeon. “Hello, Doctor. We apologize for the intrusion, however, it’s urgent you come with us.” The surgeon stands still, expressing his disinterest. 

“Perhaps we could be more specific.” The second man states. “Our employer is a high profile businessman, and he’s requested you for a, for lack of a better word, commission.” The surgeon doesn’t shift from his current stance. 

“Look, Doctor.” The first man speaks again. “It would seem you are… Low on options, wouldn’t you agree?” The surgeon bows his head down, making eye contact with his worn, white sneakers. The first man has a point. “Our employer will ensure your safety during your stay, and grant you a new life once the transaction is complete.” The surgeon lets the promises of the first man marinate, knowing it’s unlikely this situation leans in his favor, but also knowing he has no other choice. He nods at the men, who take it as a cue to lead the surgeon to the back of the limousine.

…

The two men escort him from the limousine to the entrance of a mansion that must be ten times the size of the surgeon's estate. They lead him throughout the luxurious maze to an office twice the size of the surgeon's studio. 

“Our employer will be with you shortly.” The first man states, as both he and the second man exit the office, leaving the surgeon alone. Or, so he thought, as the large chair at the desk in front of him spins to face the surgeon. 

“Hello, Doctor. Good to see you’ve made the smart decision.” The suited businessman gets up to greet him, dark saddle shoes tapping the black marble floor as he makes his way to shake the surgeon’s hand.

“So,” The businessman starts, “let us get to the point then.” The surgeon nods, letting his hand slip from the businessman’s firm handshake. “I’ve brought you here today in order to ask you to save my daughter's life.” The surgeon’s eyes widen. “She’s in dire need of a heart transplant, she’s in end-stage heart failure. There’s been no match, and any day now, her life can come to an end.” 

The businessman pauses, offering the surgeon a chance to speak, which the surgeon declines with his silence. The businessman huffs a small chuckle.

“I’ve heard that you were a man of few words, while I admit I didn’t realize just how few.” The surgeon, as expected, doesn’t reply. “You may be wondering how you can help when there’s no heart available to transplant, but given the recent news surrounding your sculptures, I'm sure you’ve determined what I’ve called you here to atempt.” The surgeon nods slowly, apprehensive of the businessman’s request. The surgeon knows he’s incapable of controlling the heart’s will to beat, his skills only go so far.

“I think you’ve figured out that the reason that heart was beating was because it fed from the life of the lady who bought it.” The surgeon shudders. Though he knows it’s the truth, he hasn’t had the time to let the full weight of what happened to the lady settle on him. If he knew his hearts could kill people, he would’ve never distributed them, no matter what the discovery might mean. It’s too dangerous.

“Before you dwell on it too much, I’ve done some research on the lady. She had pancreatic cancer, her prognosis estimated she’d die within the month. I doubt your heart stole more than a week.” This information hardly soothes the surgeon, so the businessman reverts back to the topic at hand.

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘If his words are true, he must know it wouldn’t be possible to create a heart that would sustain a human life rather than steal it.’ Am I correct?” The surgeon nods at the businessman. “Well, my theory is, if a human were to willingly hand the rest of their life over to the heart, the recipient of said heart would be able to continue living for however many years the volunteer had left. Does this sound like a logical theory to you?” The surgeon hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He’s unable to give the businessman a clear answer as there’s no research, and it’s evident that the surgeon would be uncomfortable conducting research on this subject. The businessman steps closer, placing a hand on the surgeon's shoulder. 

“I understand this is a troubling task to ask of you, and I don’t want you to feel as if your choice is being ripped from you. I wouldn’t force you to take a life if you were unwilling. You should also know, she’s all I have left. My wife, her mother, passed away during birth. If I have to spend so much as a minute in this world without either my wife or daughter, I’d waste my life, taking it with my gun in an attempt to find them again. If giving my life could give my daughter even as little as five more years, I’d hand it over in a heartbeat.” The surgeon understands now. This father’s only will to live is through his daughter, he loves her so much, he’d beat her heart through sheer will alone if he could. 

“Regardless of the success of the operation, I’ll be indebted to you, Doctor.”  The surgeon hesitates, but eventually nods at the businessman, accepting his deal. The businessman squeezes the surgeon's shoulder, the businessman’s own shoulders relaxing. His composure cracking, at last, tears running down his face as he whispers to the surgeon.

“Thank you.”

…

It’s been almost ten years since the surgeon has stepped foot into the operating room. Since scrubbing in now, the surgeon has been the most relaxed he’s been since his retirement, despite the high-risk experimental surgery he’s about to perform. The businessman lies awake on one table, while his ten year-old daughter lies on a separate table next to the businessman’s, currently under anesthesia. The businessman took care of getting the surgeon an operating room, while the surgeon took care of sculpting the ideal heart for his patient, which he now brings over to the businessman. He places the heart into the businessman’s sterile, gloved fingers, and waits. It’s not long before the heart glows, being brought to life. The businessman gasps at the initial sensation, not expecting to physically feel the heart’s sucking, but soon settles in it, embracing his fate.

“Hey, Doctor.” The surgeon shifts his gaze from the heart to the businessman’s face, which has aged more than anticipated. “Tell my girl, Daddy will meet her on the moon, okay?” The surgeon's brow crinkles as he nods, accepting the businessman’s request just before his eyes close. He peels the living heart from the businessman’s fingers, not wasting a second during the procedure. When he’s ready, he places the heart into the little girl’s vacant cavity, and waits for it to beat.