Heart Failure

Stars. Twinkling bursts of light. Bloodshot, glassy eyes. He has given up.

He was supposed to save everyone. Save the world. Save it because the crops wilted. Save it because the water rose and flooded. Save it because the ice dissolved. He was supposed to save it because the earth was about to combust, like his aircraft did a few milliseconds ago.

The view would probably take his breath away if he could breathe. He knew what would happen. He was not holding his breath- if he did, his lungs would expand, turn into balloons, and eventually pop. Instead, he exhales slowly, every six seconds.

The media claims your life flashes before your eyes. To him, it isn't his whole life. Snapshots. Short films. Clips. Memories. Ones that he loved, ones that he did not want to revisit. Some pictures were blurry, incomprehensible. The highs and lows of his life, captured in stubby snippets.

The sea tickles his ankles. He always loved the stars, and he can see them reflected in the waves now. He is small. A child. Three years old, maybe. He doesn't know about reflection, or that it's possible to drown. He tries to eat the little lights, as toddlers tend to do. He is greeted with a mouthful of saltwater.

He wishes he were still a child. Innocent, kind, oblivious, naive.

It's been six seconds. Exhale. He is terrified.

They are coming for him. He does not know who they are. They say they are Child Protective Services. He does not think he needs them- why would he, at nine years old? His mothers don't hurt him. Where are they, after all? Why are these men coming for him?

They say something bad happened. He does not know what this means. He does not know what anything means. A police officer tries to calm him down. Tell him they will help him. Tell him his mothers are gone now, but it'll be okay. He does not think he will be okay. They tell him he's confused. They call him the wrong name. He tries to correct them, but they do not listen. They never listen. No one ever listens. He pushes the man away and runs.

Arms flying, his chest rises too quickly, too rapidly. He is not supposed to run in a binder. The binder his mothers gave him because they were the only ones that listened. They are gone, he has been told. Gone where? He cannot start to imagine, he cannot go down that spiraling hole.

Sweaty, suffocating, squeezing. He runs because he feels alone. He runs because his parents are gone. He runs because he hates those men who think they know everything, with their pasty white skin and privileged lives. He is dizzy, he can barely breathe. The police officers run after him, but he knows where to go- he is clever. He is in front of the house. Stumbling, his vision blurs, and his world tilts into the concrete.

That picture isn't blurry, he just doesn't want to see it.

Ten seconds. His body's water is vaporizing, and the underlining tissue is beginning to swell.

He is tired. So, so tired. He knows it's unethical, but he is sleeping at his teacher's house. The only teacher who understands. Maybe the only person left in the world who understands. He can't get out of the bed in the guest room. The teacher, respecting personal and legal boundaries, doesn't intrude. It has been a month since he ran from the men. He does not get up.

His family members float above him. They whisper in his ear. He cannot move. He does not shower. He eats once a week, and his flesh has thinned to the point that it hangs off his bones. He has not taken off his binder. His ribs have cracked and fluid has built up. He does not get up to go to the bathroom. His liver is on the brink of ceasing. He is as good as dead.

The clearest portrait, the most unwanted.

Twelve seconds. Exhale. He knows he will die.

He is fourteen. He lives with his teacher, who has officially adopted him. He is on hormones. He is starting to grow a beard. His voice has deepened. He has already had many surgeries to fix the damage from his depressive episode. Liver, ribs, bladder, uterus, lungs. In two years he will get top surgery. He is on anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. He wants to be an astronaut. He works as a cashier during the summer and uses the money the buy a telescope, astronomy books, and gummy bears.

His teacher, whom he now calls Nin, is supportive throughout the rest of his life. They never lay a hand on him.

Even with the mental illnesses, he envies that time of his life- he was free and loved.

Thirteen seconds. The moisture on his tongue has started to boil.

The surgery is finished. His chest hurts- although this time, it feels good. A warm hug. He can smell the faint whiff of blood coated with chemicals. The walls are a stark white, glaring at him. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, a mixture of squishy and soft. He is loaded, a useless corpse, into a car. The anesthesia makes everything seem hilarious and wavy. Nin is driving him home, where they spoon-feed him and prop him up in front of the television. After four weeks, he can take the wrapping off. The sight of his flat chest in the mirror, the raw yet stunning scars, triggers a waterfall of tears to spill down his cheeks. That's him. That's him in the mirror, staring back.

Nin, whose friend is a tattoo artist, brings him to get a design over the scars, per his request. He chooses The Creation of Adam, and requests it be outlined with stars and planets.

The sweetest memory despite the pain, a sensation of deep euphoria.

Fourteen seconds. His skin, along with expanding, has begun to burn.

He is an astronaut. He is being led onto the spaceship. He is twenty-two. His name has been legally changed, along with the gender marker on everything except his hospital profile. It is time to save the world. He is ready to save the world. He calls Nin before he takes off, says he loves them and everything will be okay soon. He says that the earth will be okay soon.

He is a liar.

Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

He cannot breathe, he cannot inhale, he is suspended. Suspended, like the humans' hearts in their masses. He cannot stop thinking about his heart. A conductor, a leader. Constantly prevailing and persevering despite its host's resignation, purposely ingesting poison to numb their pain. If the heart gave up, everything would die. Nothing would exist for that person anymore. The head of the organization, the leader of the body's community. His heart toils, unquestioning, in his favor. Everything must work and line up perfectly to keep existing- and here he was, and the earth was dying, because the idiot humans couldn't do the bare minimum of staying alive. Because he couldn't even take care of a million-dollar spaceship made specially for him.

A surge of gratitude interrupts the self-hate when he realizes he can see a star-forming region in the Eagle Nebula. The Pillars of Creation, it is named. Somehow, in a dying second, there is beauty. Art, glamorous, out-of-this-world grace. It's burnt sienna, with an impossibly vibrant red peeking through every few thousand miles. A still photograph of powder being thrown, the region looks like something out of a fantasy novel, a dazzling blue background dotted with sparks of light. It appears to be glowing, even, the darker blue background illuminated slightly by the milky brown. Again, it feels breathtaking. He doesn't mind this will be the last thing he sees. Even though the earth will die, even though he has failed.

It seems his body is sinking under his guilt. He's bruised, burns striping his arms from the explosion. He most likely broke something. A rib, maybe. Yes, that is what it feels like- a broken rib piercing his heart. Stabbing the submissive slave. That's what it feels like... though he cannot tell whether it is physically broken or if it is the feeling of his failure.

There must be a way to save the world. He will not give up, he is done giving up. He's already submitted himself to death before, he won't let it happen again. Think. He must think. This is why he went to college, this is why he got his job- he must think. It has been fourteen seconds, he will be unconscious in one if he's lucky.

Something inside him screams. The trigger! A button on his left wrist that he got implanted for an emergency. His mission was to go to the one planet they found that had life on it, and beg for help. But the button could send out an electromagnetic pulse to the ship's debris, make it buzz and show a message, no matter what piece... he was so close to the planet, it was likely some rubble reached it.

In a split second, he brings his arm to his head and jams the button. In the movies, there would probably be some cacophonous, dramatic noise, but sound cannot travel in space.

He has succeeded, hopefully. But there is no more air left to exhale. There is no more oxygen left to inhale. His lungs expand. He can feel it, pressing against his chest scars. Pressing against The Creation of Adam... He sends a quick mental apology to Michelangelo. The pain is pushing into the servant organ.

He cannot feel when his lungs burst, because he has already lost consciousness.