The Donor (short story)

By Luke Labern

Hello, beautiful. I don't know if you remember what I look like. In all honesty, I don't have a great capacity for remembering what changes in appearance I went through during that time, either. Some things have not changed though: people say I have brooding, chestnut-colour eyes, with messy hair of the same tone. I have only light stubble – I didn't shave much during that stage of my life either, though I cannot seem to grow a beard.

During all those years I was very confused. I expect you are feeling the same, now. Why do I refer to you as beautiful? Not because of face-value features – though of course you are a pretty, youthful and vibrant girl who I adore – but your spirit. To me, you are as good as human life can get. As I write this with a tear rolling down my cheek, I smile so simply and in such an untainted manner that I realise now is the best day of my entire life.

You are, of course, probably crying now, also. Not because of these words, but because you are reminded of stinging memories of your past. Shortness of breath – that feeling that your body is giving up on you, destroying itself from the inside out... That is what has, in the most obscure of ways, given my life meaning. Please: do not stop reading. I will explain everything to you. I can only imagine the pain you had to go through. Of course, I saw you, lying unconscious and being carried into an ambulance for one of hundreds of times, with a glazed look on your face, as still as when you were two gametes in different human beings. Every time I saw this I wished you could see me. I wanted you to know how I felt your pain. I was there for you in your darkest times, when you were so close to perishing that even the paramedics gave up hope. But I knew you would survive.

It could well be ten years until you are able to appreciate this letter, or its significance. That doesn't really matter, in this world of mine. This merely stands as evidence of my existence: it is nothing more, and I do not wish for it to be. Whether you choose to burn this letter, never open it, or let it fall behind furniture never to be read, what I have written has still been said.

Eva, I do not know your surname. I never inquired about it. It is not important. What is a name? A sound made with the vocal chords, or scribbles on paper. When I sit at home, I don't need to identify you by your tag. I can sense you, my next door neighbour. You have early bed times, and are supervised more than most. If your life was represented as a star, you would be the most cherished of all. You are my north star. You have managed to guide me through so much of my life, when I have spent so many years wandering in darkness and fallen to my knees in desperation.

Many times when I have been sleeping, your light has appeared to flicked and dim: it has very nearly fallen out of the sky. You lived. Thankfully, you were discovered in your perfectly still state. Sometimes without breath, others with a rapidly decreasing temperature. Your sweet hands may have turned a deadly shade of blue, but you are still alive.

Nothing makes me happier, than you, Eva, and your persistence in living even after a mere four years on the planet.

* * *

I have sat on the edge of a cliff too many times to count, staring into the sea beyond and seeing nothing. The horizon was a reflection of my desire to live. It existed, in a blunt and pointless form, merely rolling on endlessly in a circle. There were no waves, no boats, merely small fish swimming and dying in their aquatic world, pointlessly. My mind was vacant and a waste of brain. The most important kilogram in the universe is found within every human skull, but I know yours is one that may be more brilliant than all others.

Why did I not let myself slip off the edge? The grass was plenty moist and an accident could easily have been forced. For some reason I did not throw myself into the arms of the sky, only to be dropped hundreds of feet to meet the pebbles and stones below. It would have been romantic: small things (the stones) making up a larger surface to end me, just as components of different organs made up a large surface: my body. An equal and opposite reaction from my body to the rocks below.

Though here I am, writing this; so I must have sensed something else was in store for me. Later that day, as I returned to lower ground and looked back at the cliff, I noticed how it seemed so inviting at the time, but appeared occupied and even frustrated that it had not been the cause of my death. It was ignoring me. Frowning, I made my way into the town.

My need to self-destruct had been softened slightly, and I spent a good quarter of an hour chatting to the man behind the counter at an off-licence. He told me of his pregnant wife, who was expecting on that day. After his shift, which was to end five minutes later, he was going to get a taxi to the hospital and hold her hand and cry when his son was born.

Just as he turned to reach for a of packet of cigarettes for a young girl who was likely not eighteen, a boy of about sixteen ran into the store, clothed in tracksuit bottoms, gloves, white trainers, a beanie hat covered with his tightly-strung hoodie over the top, with his eyes being the only human feature presenting themselves. This, the teenage burkha. The religion: boredom and rebellion, devoid of intelligence. Though clearly his outfit cost hundreds of pounds, he kicked a stack of beer bottles smashing them, before grabbing a crate and sprint out of the store, all within about ten seconds.

As he exited from the door, a large brick was thrown through the huge pane of glass that served as the front of the store, and it fell to the ground in thousands of shards, obliterated in totality.

The girl who had just got hold of her cigarettes then swiped lighters, sweets and everything she could on the counter, stuffing them into her large front pocket, before running out of the store too. She acted ruthlessly on our shock, and we could hear her, the other theif and their accomplices laughing as they ran up the road.
Here came my conflict: I had all but dispensed with wanting to live. My new friend slumped to the ground and pounded the floor. "I can't believe it. I'm going to miss my first child's birth! I have to clear all this up, ring the police and write a witness statement..."

What I wanted to do was chase down these youths and hunt them down like wild game. They had made their daring attempt to prosper, and I wanted to tear them limb from limb. If I was to go to jail for my actions I would have admitted my breaking the law. The disgust I felt towards humanity then was enough to make my veins burst.

As I debated whether to hunt and maim, or comfort, my friend's mobile started ringing. He answered: "Hello? ... Yes, this is Mr. Lamb. ... What, now? Are you joking? Of course you're not joking. How... How can I get there?" he said this both to me and himself. I guessed what was happening and he confirmed it. "She's in labour. My darling's in labour for god's sake!"

Why is any of this important, you may be wondering? It was then that I knew how I was going to act, and the reason for this letter itself.

* * *

I demanded that my new friend relax: I told him to ring his taxi and go, whilst I would pose as he and clear up the spilt alcohol and deal with the police. He shook my hand thoroughly, even hugged me. He was ecstatic. I knew then that shifting his pain from him was the least I could do.

Where once I would have stood still and not acted on my impulses, I did exactly what I wanted. However, by then my own pain could not be shifted. I was tired, though I enjoyed helping this man so thoroughly that it brought a smile to my face for the first time in weeks, when I mopped up the wet floor and picked up every single shard of glass with my bare hands.

Perhaps you think me a complex and disturbing person. If so, I do apologise for the way this has been written. I will not attempt to hold your attention any longer: I will do you that favour, no matter what age you are. You should not be burdened with me.

Here I am sitting in my flat, which is neat and pristine. I am sitting in my lounge, on a sofa which I have enjoyed sitting on for many years. I am sitting alone and the television is off. It's early evening; just the right time for traffic to flow properly and the hospitals to be slightly emptier than at any other time; just before the normal alcohol intoxicants.

I have rung an ambulance and directed them to my house. I have alerted them to a tragedy in this very flat. I informed them that I have just found my best friend lying on the floor with a donor bracelet on, reading "heart and lungs", and with a letter informing the reader of his wishes.

As I said, I am alone. When I hear the paramedics (perhaps the same ones who have so many times carried you into an ambulance) ring the buzzer, I will tell them to hurry, and rush up the stairs to my second-floor flat. When I have pressed the button on the panel next to my front door to open the main flat building door, I will return to this room, after leaving my flat door open, and take the kitchen knife that is lying on the table in front of me and place it to my throat.

Your failing heart and my failing life can be solved in one motion with my hand: for I will expire exactly as the paramedics read my other note, and know that I am the same blood group as you, and that we match in every way: my heart will fit yours. You have suffered so long with your defective heart, and I have looked at my normal health and cursed it endlessly. I do not want mine: I want you to have it.

Why? Just as I wrote earlier, I lost faith with humanity... But you, you are the beautiful human that I admire most. As I end my haunted life, I can finally do something that will pleasure me in these last few moments, before I return to nothingness: extend as long as possible.

Good bye, beautiful.