“Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my
eyes. I am stunned he can see it. Delicate to the touch and tender on every
side, the bruise is deeper than days. My
hand automatically moves to my chest.
Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but
life has since shown me otherwise. My
heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings. The ends are grasped tight by
numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over
time. I cry because they are invisible
to most.
“Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart.
His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my
arm. He twists it enough to show me a
small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona.
“Oh. My elbow.” I let the air exhale from my lungs. Another bruise forms where my heart has hit
the floor. It is jerked up again.
“Can I do anything for you?”
I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one
of the dangling strings. He tugs and I feel
it.
“No,” I reply to his question. But it is a lie. There is something he could do, along with
all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart. I wish they would mercifully let go.
Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich
