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H E A R T B E A T
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It's so loud, I can almost feel the ground shaking beneath my feet.

It echoes violently throughout the room, drowning out every other sound like a heavy storm on a tin roof. I can hear it ( and I'm the only onewho can ) -- it's beating a fierce, steady rhythm against my eardrum. I can feel it ( and I'm the only one who can ) -- it's reverberating like a pinball inside your chest as I lean against it. I close my eyes, trying to drown it out, but it's like trying to keep rain from falling -- it isn't working. I can't stop it.

It's a very stubborn thing, you know -- your heartbeat, I mean.

I can feel your gloved fingers running themselves through my hair, your other hand wrapped securely around my waist. I think you must have seen me grimace, because I can hear you ask me if I'm okay -- barely, though, because your heartbeat's so loud. It's getting louder -- louder and louder and louder and louder and for God's sake, make it stop!

I do my best not to cover my ears with my hands -- how strange would that look, right? But it's getting harder & harder not to. I don't want to hear it anymore -- each beat, each ba-dump of your heart only serves to remind me that I don't have one.

Vaguely I hear myself say that I'm alright -- that I'm probably just tired and that I need to sleep. I can feel you nod against me, your chin lightly bumping the top of my head. I feel you press your lips to my forehead before slowly sliding yourself from behind me.

"'Night, Naminé," you whisper, placing your hand on the knob. "Enjoy the quiet." You smile at me warmly before allowing the door to close behind you.

And right away I realize that's going to be impossible. Even after you've left the room, even after you've let my door click shut behind you -- I can't enjoy the quiet.

Because I can still hear your heart beating.

…

I slowly bring the knife down in front of me, slicing it through the carrot I had placed on the countertop. As I raise it up above me again, I can't help but feel tempted to plunge it into my chest instead. How I would love to; I would do anything to make that incessant heartbeat stop.

But I don't. You're still sleeping, anyway. That's the only time I can't hear your heartbeat -- when you're sleeping. I'm safe -- for now. So instead I lower the knife to the carrot again, hoping that you won't wake up any time soon. But apparently my prayers have gone unanswered; as I start to push the knife through the carrot once more, I hear it -- that thump, thump, thump that certainly isn't the sound of your feet on the stairs.

The door to the kitchen opens -- I know that it's you, because the thumping starts increasing in volume. The fact that you've wished me a good morning doesn't register, because you're coming closer & closer, and the closer you get to me, the louder your heartbeat becomes.

You're right behind me now -- you say my name again, but I don't hear it; your heartbeat's so loud by now that I'm practically going deaf, and yet it still grows louder -- louder, louder, louder and even louder and for the love of God --

"SHUT UP!" I can't take it anymore; your heartbeat's driven me to the brink of insanity and pushed me over the edge. With a loud cry, I throw my arm out, desperate for some way -- any way -- to stop that persistent drumming.

And this time my prayers are answered, because by the time my head clears and the ringing in my ears stops, I realize that the kitchen has gone quiet. Except for the sound of my breathing, there's nothing -- no squawking birds, no dripping faucets.

No heartbeat.

And then I become aware of a thick, warm liquid trickling down my arm -- the arm that I had flung outward not ten seconds before.

It's then that I realize : it's the same arm I'd been holding the knife in.

Slowly, I turn my head, afraid of what I'm going to find. I meet your eyes with mine -- your wide, unseeing cerulean orbs that are still flecked with surprise and concern. My gaze travels downwards, past your gaping mouth, over the gleaming chain that hangs around your neck, down the pitch black of your shirt -- and finally settles on the tarnished silver knife sticking out of your chest.

The tarnished silver knife that I am holding.

I don't have to look at the blood dripping from my hand to know that you are dead. Dazedly, I pull the knife out of your chest, only to watch you slump lifelessly to the ground. I do nothing but stare at your crimson-stained form, huddled in a limp ball on the floor.

But I don't cry. I may have rid myself of your heartbeat, but, in doing so, I've lost you, too. But I still don't cry. Instead, I calmly turn back to the half of the carrot that's still waiting on the countertop. Without so much as a glance backwards, I begin slicing it once more with the knife -- the knife that's still stained with blood : your blood, from your heart. And I realize that for all this time, listening to your heart beat has served to remind me that I don't have one -- a heart, I mean.

I guess that's your job now -- isn't it, Sora?

…

an. ahh, how i've missed writing angst. x3
don't worry ; my next oneshot will be com-
pletely tragedy-free. & artificial splendor and
whimsical melodies will be updated whenever
my teachers decide not to drown me in
homework.
dsclm. nope. still don't own it.