The Bargain of a Broken Pulse
(A figure stands center stage, backlit by a flickering light. Their hands hover over their chest, fingers twitching as if trying to claw out a truth. Voice low, fraying at the edges.)
It’s all so… confusing. This wave— they call it love, don’t they? Or grief? Or whatever poison keeps us coming back for more. But it’s not a wave. It’s a riptide. One moment you’re laughing, breath full of sunlight, and the next — salt. Burning. The surface? A myth. And the cold… not winter’s chill, no. The kind that starts here. (They tap their sternum violently.) The cold of answers that don’t fit. Of a heart handing you a riddle, then drowning in the solve.
You ever press your ear to someone’s chest and listen? Not to the rhythm — ba-dum, ba-dum — that’s just biology’s clock. But to the why. Why does it keep beating? Why does it stutter when their name slips into the room like a thief? (Voice drops, haunted.) Why does it feel like a disease? A heart disease — congenital, incurable. Diagnosed the moment you smiled at me. 514. A number? A curse? A receipt for whatever’s left of me?
(They step into a slash of light, face half-illumined, half-shadow. A manic grin flickers.)
You crawled out of the afterlife to ask, didn’t you? To carve your why into my ribs. And now here you are — surgeon and scavenger. Hands steady as you unspool my arteries, hold them up to the light like stolen jewelry. “Still warm,” you’ll say. “Vintage. Rare.”And the buyers will swarm. Because everyone wants a heart that’s been loved to ruin. A heart that beats in triple time — want, hurt, want, hurt, want —
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(Their laughter fractures, edges sharp.)
You think I don’t know the game? You’ll package it neat — slightly dented, runs on spite and nostalgia. Auction it off to the highest bidder. And I’ll let you. Because what’s left? This fist of muscle, this wet, red guilt? Take it. Sell it. Let it fund someone else’s fairytale.
(A pause. Their voice goes quiet, brittle as glass.)
But when you do… tell them it’s a relic. That love is just a heist in a pretty dress. And the only thing left after the theft…
(They press a palm to their chest, mouthing the next word silently as the light dies.)
…is echo.
(Blackout. The sound of a lone heartbeat slows, then flatlines.)
