SHORT STORY | HORROR

A Heart for a Soul, Version 2

A short horror story. A heart donor to remember.

The open-hand slap to his wife’s face could have been heard in the next county, had anyone been near enough to witness it. But he never disciplined her in front of witnesses.

Gino had covertly followed her to this mostly empty seedy motel where she’d checked in wearing a wig. And, in the dark of the night, the large sunglasses were a nice touch.

He observed her looking around anxiously as she made her way to her room, her bags and purse draped over her shoulders. Not all of the exterior lights had working bulbs and patches of darkness decorated the walkway to the rooms. Crouched behind his car, Gino waited.

As she unlocked the door to her room, he sprinted toward her and crashed into her back, slamming her through the open door.

“You can’t leave me, baby, you know that. I warned you that divorce was out of the question. ’Til death do us part and all that shit.”

WHAP. Across the face.

As she cowered on the bed, Gino grabbed her purse, her room key, and her car key.

“I’ll take these with me. I need to know you’ll be here when I get back.”

In the unlit parking lot, as he cranked his car, he caught motion outside the driver’s side window. In the corner of his eye, he noticed her staggering toward the driver's side window.

“You picked the wrong bag, you abusive fuck.”

She aimed her pistol directly at his head and fired without hesitation. His head rocked back and then he slumped over against the steering wheel.

As his life faded, she muttered, “’Til death do us part” under her breath as she carefully retrieved her belongings from his car.

Gino felt nothing as the transplant surgeon removed him from his body. He almost faded away completely as his lifeblood was drained and he was placed in a cold, dark cooler. But just enough of his soul clung to his still heart. Then, after a confusing few hours of unfelt pokes and prods, he sensed himself reattached in another being. He recognized a strong soul surrounding him.

He felt like an island in a strange unmoving sea. Then, lifeblood from the sea flooded through him, followed by an electrical shock, and he sparked to life.

Gino belonged. The heart from his former body belonged, but more importantly, he belonged. And a vague part of himself wanted revenge.

Every pump of the donated heart sent blood coursing through the body, and with each one, a tiny, infinitesimal part of himself escaped. And, once escaped, began to spread roots.

Months passed. He thought of nothing outside of becoming stronger, understanding this new body, and revenge. Always revenge.

He continuously sensed the other soul in this body. Peter’s original soul. The native soul.

Over time, the other soul seemed to become thinner. And he felt himself becoming more...just…more.

Until one morning he woke up and the body named Peter belonged to Gino. He could feel Peter’s weakened soul in the background trying to send instructions to his body. But those were just weak heckles from the balcony. Peter-Gino was front and center on stage.

Now came the time for retribution.

He got dressed, grabbed Peter’s wallet and keys, and drove the car to a big-box store. Not only did he need a weapon, but he also needed her to know who he was. And it would have to be convincing. His wife had to die knowing that she did not escape her husband.

Revenge consumed his thoughts as he drove downtown to her office building. Turning into the huge multi-story parking deck, he carefully eased his way through it, often checking the dashboard clock to make sure he had plenty of time. He circled up and up until he reached the seventh floor.

Peter-Gino spotted her gray sedan and stared at it for a few moments. Everything was within his grasp now. He’d come back from the dead and would make her pay for what she did. And Peter wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, now that he had a strong new heart. He might just have to find a new wife — one that was less trouble.

That thought gave Peter-Gino comfort and he closed his eyes to rest.

After a while, he felt something odd at his hand. He looked down to see his index finger barely wiggling.

The heckler from the balcony was trying to join him on stage.

Negative.

Gino-Peter grabbed the vibrating finger, stilling it, ending the minor insurrection.

Then, he pulled both hands — his hands — up in front of Gino-Peter’s eyes — his eyes — and opened them wide then closed them into a tight fist, again and again.

“This is my body now,” he matter-of-factly snarled at whatever pitiful portion was left of Peter’s soul.

Then he closed his eyes calmly and waited some more.

When he opened them again, office workers were heading to their cars, eager to leave for home after a day’s work. True to her habits, his wife was never among the first to make the trek home. She was a hard worker who usually clocked more hours than her colleagues.

That trait used to make him irate. In this case, it would be perfect.

Peter-Gino finally saw her exit the parking lot elevator and begin the final walk to her car. She looked vibrant and happy, wearing her high heels and fancy clothes — and easy to spot since most of the other cars had left the premises.

He grabbed the sheathed knife he had bought, got out of his car, and tucked the weapon in the back of his pants. He strategically made his way toward her in such a way as to block her from escaping him.

When his wife noticed him she stopped short.

“It’s me, you fucking bitch,” Peter-Gino growled at her.

“Excuse me?” she shot back sharply. “Do I know you?”

He tossed her a pink bandana at her, his other purchase from earlier today.

It landed at her feet and she stared at it. She looked up from the bandana and glared at him.

“It’s me, Emily. Your loving husband. You were a bad girl. Honor and obey your husband. Those were the rules.”

“Mister, I don’t know you,” she replied. Less boldness now. Confusion seeping into her tone.

“You know me, baby. I bought you a pink bandana just like that on our second date. You wore it around your neck the rest of the night.”

Peter-Gino could see it now. The look on her face that he craved. The expression he knew. Terror mixed with despair. He had a stranger’s face, but now she believed.

“You are dead,” she whined, her voice shaking.

“No, Emily,” Peter-Gino replied smugly. “I was dead.”

As he unsheathed the hunting knife from behind him and brought it around, her eyes opened wide and she made a feeble attempt to bolt away. He easily jumped toward her and knocked her down to the concrete parking deck.

Retribution.

He stood over her, savoring her pain and fright for just a moment before…

Without warning, his legs began to stagger forward, out of his control.

“What the shit?”

The native soul was interfering. Another revolt from the balcony.

In a rage, he reached out for his wife but his legs had already maneuvered him more than an arms-length away. He still directed the rest of his body, but his legs began to quickly gain momentum, first jogging, then sprinting.

He desperately tried to regain control over his legs…these were his legs, dammit. The railing of the parking deck was close now but he could feel himself beginning to wrestle control back.

Too little, too late.

Now it was his turn to scream.

“NO. NO. NO.”

Peter-Gino crashed into the seventh-floor railing and flipped over.

Air-born and flailing, through his panic he still was able to sense Peter’s soul pop loose and escape skywards.

As Gino’s body smashed into the concrete below, his soul also escaped. Its downward momentum carried it through the walkway and far beyond until Gino reached his final, fiery destination.

Retribution.

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