The Price of Silence

The sun glints off the tip of my scalpel as I prepare to make an incision.  I hesitate – is this really necessary?  A quick nod, and seconds later the sharp blade pierces the skin above my heart. 

I remove the slippery, pulsating organ and place it gently on a platter made of fine, polished silver.

“We need to talk,” I whisper, poking an aorta with my gloved finger.

My heart says nothing, just continues its rhythmic beating as if it were still encased in my chest.

I take a deep breath and begin the meticulous dissection of my warm heart.  They must be in there, somewhere.  The place that pounds when I see billows of smoke in the distance, even if it’s only visible when my eyes are closed.  The spot that squeezes when I see a pregnant woman, and I don’t even understand why.   The general area that leaps into my throat when I think my dark thoughts in the middle of a sunny day.  They must be silenced, for they won’t listen to reason.

My search is in vain.  All that sits upon the tray is bloody, cut up meat where a perfectly performing heart once was.  Disappointed, I place the mess back into the gaping hole in my rib cage, and close it with my needle and thread.

“I was afraid this might happen, ” I say quietly, and make my way to the bathroom.  I wash the scalpel, wipe it dry. 

My eyes travel upward with the arc of my hand.  A single drop of blood splashes on the counter top as I make the first of many cuts that will lead me to my brain.  It must be silenced, for it won’t listen to reason.