Irregular Heartbeat
Page 1
Copyright © 2017, by B.A. Gabrielle.
Irregular Heartbeat
B.A. Gabrielle
author@bagabriellebook.com
www.bagabriellebook.com
Published 2017, by B.A. Gabrielle Books.
www.bagabriellebook.com
eBook Version 1.0
(Kindle) ASIN: B01N0X0GL6
(Paperback) ISBN-10: 0-9991791-2-8
(Paperback) ISBN-13: 978-0-9991791-2-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photo copying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address B.A. Gabrielle.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Dedication
To my family, and all the damaged people who didn’t think they were worth anything. There isn’t any healing without a couple of scars.
Prologue
Spring, the season of new beginnings. Summer, the season of warmth. Fall, the season of thankfulness. Winter, the season of cheer. And when the seasons pass, what awaits me next is…
Death.
“Time is like a river. You cannot touch the same water twice because the flow that has passed will never pass again. Enjoy every moment in life.”
— Anonymous
1
At First Glance
March 2nd, 20XX
7:31 AM
I press the slender, silver knife against my wrist and watch the crimson blood trickle down my skin. Today as well, I’m trying to decide if I should make the final cut.
“Humans really are weak creatures,” my self-deprecating whisper melts into the air and I feel a hot flash of pain shoot up my arm. Just a little more, and it’ll all be over.
“If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be late!” I hear my mom yell, and the knife clatters into the porcelain sink. “Come down here!”
I wash my wrist, ignoring the sting of pain by biting my lip, and pull on a yellow sweater adorned with flowers. I run a hand through my short black hair and stare at my reflection in the mirror before turning away.
“There’s no need to yell,” I walk downstairs and pull the sleeves down. “I’m right here.”
“I was yelling because you couldn’t hear me,” she looks at my sweater. “It’s the first day of spring. Why are you wearing that?”
“It’s cold in class,” I walk past her.
When we arrive at my school, I open the car door and mumble “goodbye” before walking inside. Just like last year, everyone huddled together and formed their clicks with a quickness. I take a seat in the back, and it doesn’t take long for me to overhear a conversation.
“Arrhythmia?” A bubbly-looking blonde tilts her head, looking confused. “What’s that?”
“An irregular heartbeat. I heard Mr. Butcher is teaching us about it,” a girl with thick-framed glasses answers.
“That old bastard. What the hell is he thinking?” the boy next to her lays his arms on his desk, dreading the situation. I wonder if I’ll be able to properly blend into the background for a year. I manage to block out everything during class until familiar words hit my ears.
“Arrhythmia is a condition when your heartbeat is either too fast, too slow, or irregular,” I raise my eyes from the desk, and a picture of a heart with a EKG is on the board. Written next to it is “electrical impulses”, “sinus rhythms”, and “abnormal rhythms” in cursive letters. “A heartbeat that’s too fast is called ‘tachycardia,’ and a heartbeat that’s too slow is called ‘bradycardia’,” he walks away from the board, holding the textbook in his hand. “Notice cardia at the end of them? Does anyone remember what it means?”
“The cardia is the upper opening of the stomach where the esophagus enters,” a shy student mumbles with his hand raised.
“That’s right,” he nods. “A heart rate above 100 bpm is too fast, so it’s tachycardia. A heart rate below 60 bpm is too slow, so it’s bradycardia. Some common symptoms are lightheadedness, passing out, shortness of breath, and chest pain. Oh, be sure to write this down, because it’ll all be on your next test!”
The class groans in displeasure, but I find myself intrigued. Even when the school day is nearing its end, I still have the subject on my mind. My sweater clings to my skin as I step outside, the grass making a slushing sound underneath my brown boots. As I walk towards the usual place my mom picks me up, my phone vibrates.
I won’t be able to pick you up. - Mom
This is nothing new. She’s a college professor and she somehow always manages to work late. Sliding my phone into my pocket, I wander around for a bit until someone catches my attention. A boy that looks around my age is sitting on a wooden bench.
His short brown hair is slightly ruffled by the spring breeze, and a white hospital gown is wrapped loosely around his light brown skin. I thought he looked peaceful, but as I take a closer look at his face, there’s a tear sliding down his cheek. Noticing me, he looks up, and our eyes meet.
That one glance enchanted me.
“You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy.”
— Andrea Gibson
2
Unknown Diagnosis
Afternoon
4:55 PM
Lightheadedness, shortness of breath, chest pain—these are all symptoms for arrhythmia. I place my hand over my heart, and it beats rapidly under my palm. He blinks when he notices me, wiping his cheeks with his hand, before smiling.
“Hello,” he nods. When I don’t answer, he frowns. “Are you alright?”
“I, um, arrhythmia!” I sputter. He looks a little confused, but slides over and pats the space beside him. I would look weird if I just said that and left—well, I’m sure I look weird already—so I end up sitting next to him.
“Um,” I decide to take the initiative, and he turns to me. “Why were you crying?”
Surprise flashes across his face before he closes his eyes. He stays like that for a little while before reaching for my hand. The sudden contact startles me as he places my palm on his cheek. My skin melts into the warmth of his body before he opens his eyes. There’s a strange pull his dark brown eyes have on me, and I can’t look away.
“It’s dry, right?” he asks. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s waiting for my reply, so I answer the only way I know how—by nodding. “Then I wasn’t crying.”
He releases my hand and ends the conversation before it even started. It’s none of my business whether he was crying or not. That’s what my mind is telling me, but my heart is telling me something different.
“That’s not right,” I whisper. To him or myself, I’m not sure. “When you’re sad, just admit it. Holding it in won’t solve anything.”
As if taunting me, a sharp pain rips through my wrist and my face scrunches with pain. Noticing my expression, he frowns.
“Are you in pain?”
“It’s nothing,” I slide my phone out my pocket and check the time. It’s been thirty minutes since my mom last contacted me. I should get going before it gets too dark. Locking my phone, I turn to him with a small smile.
“I should get—”
“Did you cut yourself?”
These sudden words break through my defenses and my phone drops to the ground. My sleeve slid down when I took out my phone, revealing a red line of fresh blood. Nobody has ever asked me that—even if they did happen to see my cut, they pretended to no
t notice.
I look away. “I was washing dishes and scraped my wrist against some broken glass.”
“That’s,” he smiles softly, “a lie, isn’t it?”
I don’t understand. After making up something believable they leave me alone, but he was able to cut through my paper-thin excuse with ease. Confused by his reaction, I stand from the bench and walk away. When I step onto the sidewalk I reach my hand in my pocket out of instinct to find that it’s empty.
“…I forgot,” I sigh. I just dropped my phone on the sidewalk. Before I can head back, a familiar voice calling my name stops me.
“Eliana, is that you?”
A chill goes down my spine. I don’t dare turn around to face him—his appearance is already burned into my memory, whether I like it or not. The person who called out to me is none other than Tory, my ex-boyfriend. I pretend I didn’t hear him and start walking, but his footsteps soon outpace mine.
“Eliana, wait!” he yells, grabbing my wrist. I stifle a moan by biting my lip and his fingers press into my cut in a tight grip.
“You had a fight with your new girlfriend, right?” I stare ahead, refusing to look back at him. “That’s why you’re clinging to me.”
“Would you look at me?”
“No.”
“Eliana, please…”
When I shut my eyes and sigh, our buried past flashes through my mind. It would be great if I closed my eyes long enough and he disappeared. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he moves his lips close to my ear.
“Can’t you forgive me? A lot of people break up, but that doesn’t have to be the end,” he whispers into my ear. “Why don’t we have fun again, just like we used to?”
When I turn around an expectant smile is on his face. I stare at him straight in the eye before smiling, my eyes narrowing.
“Fuck off.”
I walk away without looking back.
“You will never have to chase what wants to stay with you.”
— Anonymous
3
Critical Condition
March 3rd, 20XX
12:01 PM
After wandering around town, I arrive home at midnight. Even so, my mom isn’t here yet. Ignoring the yellow sticky note on the fridge, I head straight to my bathroom on the second floor. I lock the door behind me even—mostly out of habit—and unlock the black box holding my small knife. Like always, I place the knife over my wrist and begin to slice it into my flesh.
But this time, it’s different.
My hand is shaking.
Why? That’s what I’d like to know.
I’ve gotten numb to whether this is right or wrong, whether I cut too deep one day, and whether I should see someone about this. It shouldn’t—no, it doesn’t matter anymore. But when I think back to the boy in the hospital gown, the question he asked comes to my mind.
“Did you cut yourself?”
“Of course,” I whisper, placing my hand gripping the knife on the counter. “Why would you ask me something so obvious?”
Why was he looking at me like that?
The sadness reflected in his eyes wasn’t a lie, and it was directed at me. It was like he cared about what had made do it. I shut the box closed with the knife before walking out the bathroom and end up going to bed early.
Morning
7:44 AM
Yawning, I walk downstairs to the kitchen. The note from yesterday is replaced with a new one and it reads, “I went to work early” in cursive letters. I rip it off and throw it in the garbage before opening the fridge and taking out eggs. After cracking the eggs into the pan, my mind wanders.
Just when I broke up with one guy, I end up running into another. I scrape up the ends of the white with the spatula and reminisce on my short-lived romance. Tory and I began dating in our freshman year. He was a nerd while I was a loner. Maybe it’s because of our personalities, but we ended up catching the other’s eye.
We we’re each other’s first love.
When the smell of oil reaches my nostrils, I look down at the pan to realize I haven’t flipped the eggs yet. Avoiding the crisis of burning my breakfast, I wipe my forehead.
“Damn,” I mutter, making sure to watch this time. After dating for four months, his popularity grew with the boys and girls alike. If even the nerdiest person in school can get a girlfriend, then you get a pass into popularity.
He started to change after he began hanging around those people, and since I was a loner, I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to if we broke up. So as a last resort, I gave him my first.
I hate myself for it.
I remember walking into class the next day beaming with happiness. We finally crossed the line that proved we we’re more than friends, and my mind and body felt complete. It wasn’t until a group of second-year boys stopped in front of my desk that I got my wake-up call loud and clear.
“Did you have fun last night, Caramel?”
He told the whole class that we had sex and it spread through the school like a wildfire. I broke up with him right away, but the name stuck, resulting in my next two years of high school being even more torturous than they already are.
Girls painted “whore” and “wet” on my lockers while guys would always think it was okay to touch me any way they wanted. Those two years slowly ate away at my psyche until my personality finally warped with it. I turn off the stove and place my two fried eggs on a paper plate.
After finishing my food, I look to my backpack I left on the couch. Turning away from it, I run upstairs instead and change into a frilly blouse and black skirt. Today will be a day off.
My feet lead me down the same path that I traveled yesterday, and when I spot the hospital building, I know I’m getting closer to that bench. Sure enough, the boy in the hospital gown is there. He pauses, looking a little surprised, before smiling.
“Hello,” his brown eyes shine.
I stop in front of the bench. “I’m sorry… for yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” he tilts his head.
“I yelled at you… and was rude,” I sit next to him. “So, I’m sorry.”
He’s staring at me as if he’s never seen me before. I know we just met, but am I really that forgettable?
“Yesterday,” he mutters before picking up something beside him. “This is yours?”
“I dropped it on the ground,” when the screen lights up, the battery is at 50%. “Thank you for picking it up.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m not the best at remembering things,” he looks at my outfit. “Are you going somewhere special today?”
“I wish,” I say. “I’m skipping school.”
“Why? School sounds fun,” his eyes narrow. I wonder how long he’s been in the hospital if he admires me going to school.
“How long have you been staying at the hospital?” I ask, expecting him to not answer.
“All my life.” That was quick. Yesterday, he didn’t even know how old he was. Sighing, I kick my feet back and forth to a soundless beat.
“School isn’t as fun as you think it is. People,” I lower my eyes, “call me things.”
“Like what?” he asks, giving me his full attention. His face is open and full of curiosity.
“Caramel.” I hoped he wouldn’t hear me, but he answers right away, crushing my hopes.
“Caramel?” he looks as if he’s imagining it and licks his lips. “I think it’s delicious.”
I don’t know if he said that while knowing how it sounds, but either way, I blush.
“Don’t tell me,” he peers into my eyes. “You don’t like caramel? But it’s so good. It’s creamy and melts on the tip of your tongue—”
“Okay stop!” I’m starting to believe that he’s doing this on purpose. “It’s the reason!”
“Reason?” he repeats. “It must have been bad to make you hate caramel so much.”
It’s not that I don’t like caramel.
…But I’m sure if I said that, we would be stuck in a long conversa
tion about the sticky substance. His eyes are pure, so I’m sure if I told him about what happened he wouldn’t tease me.
“After,” I clear my throat, “I gave my first to my boyfriend, he told everyone about it. Everyone began calling me ‘Caramel’ and it stuck for three years. It was embarrassing.”
When I look up to gauge his reaction, he’s smiling. I don’t think I said anything amazing—I just told him something really embarrassing—but he’s looking at me like I just saved someone’s life.
“What is it?” I stumble over my words.
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about anything,” he says. “You’re interesting.”
“…I’m not that interesting.”
“Hey,” he looks up at the sky, his eyes narrowing as the sun shines. “Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“Why do you hurt yourself?”
Wondering if I forgot to cover my scar, I look down at my wrist. A brown bandage is covering it. I guess there’s no point in hiding it from him—he’ll see right through my lies.
“…Because it hurts.”
“Doesn’t cutting yourself hurt?”
“Cut’s may hurt, but words cut deeper.” The sharpest knife in the world isn't made of steel—it’s made from the words that come out of someone’s mouth. “You cover an injury with a bandage to make it feel better, right? But you can’t do that with feelings. When I cut myself, it distracts me from the pain. It makes me feel… numb.”
“Feel numb,” he nods. “I understand.”
“You… understand?” I ask, shocked.
“If it hurts too much, you don’t want to feel anything at all. But,” he turns to me. “If you don’t feel anything, you won’t be you anymore.”