Heartbeat.

Once upon a time…

“You’re always lying!”

Once upon a time in a far away land…

“Right, and you’re just the paradigm of truth!”

There was a beautiful angel…

“I can’t stand you! I hate you! Everything you touch withers and dies!”

The angel was so beautiful that she had many admirers…

“I hope you die you stupid, worthless bitch!”

But long ago, an evil warlock had stolen the angel’s heart…

“Fuck you, you dirty old bastard!”

And now she couldn’t feel anything…

“Drop dead!”

No love…

“Go to Hell!”

No joy…

“Every second I spend with you is like being there already!”

Nothing…

“Oh, you’re so fucking witty, aren’t you? The great fucking writer and his way with words!”

And so she would cry, all day and all night…

“Shut the fuck up!”

Cry for the hollow, empty hole inside her…

“Nice fucking comeback!”

Until one day she made a promise…

“I’ve had enough of this shit – I’ve had enough of you! I’m leaving, and I’m taking Becca with me!”

A promise to who ever could return her heart…

“No you’re not! You can’t! You fucking can’t!”

That who ever could return it from the evil warlock…

“You’re fucking crazy! You’re nuts – what are you doing? Shit, Angela, no!”

Could keep her heart forever…

“Don’t worry, Becca. Mummy’s going to wake up soon. Then every thing will be okay again. Everything will be perfect again – just the three of us.” His lips brushed her forehead, his hands gripping her head, afraid to let her go.

“Has he taken her heart again?” She asked, gripping the unconscious woman’s hand. The machines were beeping; quiet, serene and dead. “The evil warlock? Is that why she’s sleeping like this?”

He laughed, lifting her up and settling her on his lap. His arms wrapped around her, pulling him in. He smelled her, smelled her soft brown hair and burned it into his memory. His little Becca – his little girl. “Smart girl. Yeah, the evil old wizard stole mummy’s heart again.”

“You can get it back again.” Becca told him with confidence. “You can wake mummy up when you get her heart back again.”

“Maybe.” He muttered, the word meant for himself, but picked up by the little girl on his lap. She was confused, not understanding. If he got the angel’s heart back once before – if he saved her from the evil old warlock previously, why couldn’t he do it again?

“Once upon a time in a faraway land, there was a beautiful angel.” He had told her. “The angel was so beautiful that she had many admirers. But long ago, and evil warlock had stolen the angel’s heart, and now she couldn’t feel anything. No love, no joy – nothing. And so she would cry, all day and all night, cry for the hollow, empty hole inside her, until one day she made a promise. A promise to who ever could return her heart. That who ever could return it from the evil old warlock could keep her heart for ever.

“There were many great men who loved the angel – knights and princes and wizards and warriors. Powerful men, intelligent men, all sorts of great and powerful heroes.”

“And the storyteller.” She had pointed out.

“Yes, and the storyteller. A penniless, know-nothing storyteller. And although he wasn’t a powerful prince, a wise wizard or a noble knight, he was madly in love with the angel and would do anything for her – even steal her heart back from the evil old warlock.” He paused, smiling secretly. She had heard the story, hundreds of times before, but that secret little smile never stopped her from squirming. The way he knew some thing she didn’t know – not yet any way.

It had been just the three of them – mummy, daddy and Becca. Some times they had asked, a little absently, if she had ever wanted a little brother or sister. She never did, she liked it when it was just the three of them. Sometimes mummy got sad and cried and screamed a lot, but daddy would always be there, shushing her and holding her tightly, holding her when she’d cry like he’d hold Becca when she was upset. He was like a daddy for both of them – he was always there, always calming with his gentle eyes and soft, deep voice. He liked to smile, and when he did Becca did too.

Some times people asked her about the bruises, asked her if daddy ever hurt her – asked her if he ever touched her. She told them only when he hugged her. They asked her how he hugged her, and she’d tell them how he’d wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly when she cried, how he’d tell her the story about the angel who had her heart stolen. And she told them about the bruises – that some times when mummy got upset she’d hold Becca too tightly, and it would hurt, but Becca knew that mummy’s love was hurting her as much as it was hurting Becca. It just hurt inside mummy, in her heart, not outside like with Becca. She told them about the warlock who had taken the angel’s heart then, though she couldn’t tell the story like daddy could.

They were very interested in daddy’s story about the angel. They asked him about it, and he’d tell them it was just a story he had made up for her – for Becca. She didn’t know why he lied like this, why he told them it was just a story. But she knew the truth, and daddy knew the truth, and he said that was all that mattered. All that mattered was that they knew, and that they had each other.

Just the three of them – mummy, daddy and Becca.

“First he had to find out where the warlock lived.” He had told her, his voice low and quiet and gentle. “It took the storyteller weeks and weeks, but soon he found out that the warlock lived in an enormous, ugly old tower, on top of a huge mountain. The mountain was infested with all sorts of monsters that the warlock had made – things that were part bear and part octopus, and horrible, ugly dragons.” He grinned as her eyes widened in horror, picturing all the monsters. “Now, the storyteller didn’t have any weapons, like a warrior, and he didn’t know any magic, like a magician, so he had no idea how to get past all the monsters.”

“Did he give up?” She whimpered, even though she had already heard what happened.

“He thought about it. It was quite frightening, all those beasties and no way to defend himself.” He admitted, a little sadly. “But he loved the angel too much to give up then, after all of that work finding out where the warlock lived. So while he may not have had any way to fight off the evil creatures infesting the mountain, he did have one thing none of the princes or knights or wizards had.” He smiled widely, leaning in close to share his secret with her. “He had a silver tongue.”

She giggled, and he gave her a very serious look. “That was not to say that his tongue was made of silver. What it meant was that he could tell great stories – after all, he was a storyteller! And any one would believe him! Even the nastiest, foulest monsters in the world. And so the storyteller began to climb the mountain, and the first monster he met with was the horrible old dragon.

“ ‘Who dares enter my domain?’ the evil old dragon bellowed, glaring at the poor storyteller. The storyteller was very scared, but he loved the angel so much that he hid his fear in front of the old dragon.

“ ‘My name is Hercules, and I am the strongest man in the world!’ the storyteller yelled, thumping his chest. The evil old dragon laughed for the storyteller was skinny, and not very strong looking at all. But the storyteller had come prepared, and as casually as he could he pointed to a very large, very heavy-looking boulder. ‘I can lift that boulder all the way over my head, I’m so strong!’

“Once more the evil old dragon laughed, telling the storyteller, ‘If you truly can lift that boulder all the way over your head, I will let you pass, little man. But if you can’t, I will gobble you up for dinner.’ The storyteller was very afraid, but he agreed with the dragon. The storyteller was a very smart man, however, and earlier he had snuck up the mountain and put the boulder there – for it was nothing more than a papier mache! And with one easy grunt, the storyteller lifted the papier mache boulder all the way over his head. The dragon was so surprised by the feat of strength that he dropped stone dead right there on the spot! So the storyteller had defeated the dragon his way and could safely move on.”

“Mummy? It’s Becca. I made you a card, because daddy said you would like that, and it would make you better. But I know it won’t. I know you won’t wake up until daddy gets your heart back from the evil old warlock.” She whispered the words in the comatose woman’s ear, the flimsy paper card set on the bedside table. The woman didn’t respond. “He’ll get it back soon, mummy, don’t worry. Daddy says that – don’t worry. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m not worrying, because I know that you’ll wake up again.” She pressed her own small hands against the woman’s breast, above where the missing heart was. “As soon as daddy gets your heart back.”

Most mummys and daddys were married. Becca knew this, because the children at school had told her. The only mummys and daddys that weren’t married were the ones who had been divorced and weren’t living together any more. Becca didn’t really care what divorced was, or about marriage. Her mummy and daddy weren’t married, but they still lived together, which was good. She was pretty sure that as soon as they got married, they might decide they don’t like it, and then they’ll have to get divorced and they won’t be able to live together any more.

Besides, mummy and daddy didn’t meed a marriage. They had a Becca.

“The second thing the storyteller had to face was the octobear. Octobears are born in October, when ever a bear drowns. Bears don’t drown often, and they do so even less in October, so there aren’t a lot of octobears, which is a very lucky thing. But the ones that do exist are very big, very strong, and very mean – they don’t faint as easily as dragons! But the storyteller was very smart, and he had his silver tongue. So he thought long and hard about it – what would help him best an octobear? And then he knew because it was so very obvious!

“So when the storyteller came face to face with the octobear, he came as a fisherman. ‘Ahoy-hoy!’ he cheerfully called, waving his arm. ‘I came because I heard there are some very rare fish up here! Mountain fish.’

“ ‘There’s no fish up here!’ the octobear roared, flexing his powerful claws. ‘There is a hungry monster though!’

“ ‘That’s odd, I could have sworn I heard there were rare fish up here – rainbow flying fish, duck-billed sawfish, cherry-tailed trout, glow-in-the-dark salmon, all sorts.’ The storyteller said, scratching his head in confusion. Now, you might know that a bear’s diet consists mainly of fish – which is how they drown in the first place, getting careless for a meal! And as the storyteller listed more of his ridiculous rare fish, the hungrier and hungrier the octobear became, until finally he interrupted the fisherman with a hungry roar – ‘I want a rare mountain fish!’

“The storyteller widened his eyes in surprise and pointed to the tentacle legs of the octobear. ‘Why look, it’s the extraordinarily rare and extraordinarily tasty dry-land octopus!’ he cried, and as besides being very strong and very mean, they also had very large appetites, and even the nastiest people can get stupid when they think with their stomach. So the octobear leapt upon his own tentacles, and very quickly he had gobbled himself up! And that was how the storyteller defeated the octobear, and climbed all the way up the mountain – to where the warlock’s tower sat, holding the angel’s stolen heart.

She didn’t know what self-induced meant. She didn’t know what depression meant either, but daddy told her it was what mummy had, and depression was why she was always so sad, why she was always crying or screaming. The others told her it was something to do with her brain, with the chemicals there, but she knew it was to do with her heart. Because it didn’t fit back in properly when daddy rescued it, even though they all tried. Mummy tried to make it fit, and daddy tried to help her, and some times they made it better and some times they made it worse. But Becca knew that they tried, and that’s why she tried with them. That’s why she tried to make herself fit, even though she didn’t. Not really. Not even though they all tried.

“The warlock’s tower was very tall, and dark, and very scary. And although the storyteller was very afraid, he loved the angel too much to turn back now. So very slowly he climbed the tower, climbed up each rickety, crumbling step, until he reached the very top. And when he reached the top, he found a very simple, heavy wooden door. Behind the door he knew he would find the warlock and the angel’s heart, and he was very afraid. But he had come so far, and he couldn’t turn back. So very slowly he opened the door, even though his heart was beating so fast he thought it would burst. And very slowly he looked inside, even though his knees were shaking at the thought of what he might find.

“And there the warlock stood inside, holding the angel’s heart close to his own. He was very old and very ugly, and he glared at the storyteller. ‘I won’t fall for your lies!’ the warlock told the storyteller. ‘I’m smarter than that!’

“ ‘I know you are.” the storyteller agreed, worried for the safety of the angel’s heart. ‘So I don’t think I’m going to tell you any lies, I think I’ll just tell you the truth. I love the angel, but I know she can’t love me back until she has her heart.’

“And then the warlock, who was very old, began to cry. ‘I can’t give back the heart. I don’t have a heart of my own, and without one I won’t be able to feel anything. I’ll be empty.’

“ ‘But without her heart, the angel won’t feel anything either!’ the storyteller cried, tears springing to his own eyes. ‘You have to give it back.’

“And very slowly, and very sadly, the old warlock looked at the storyteller, and what the storyteller saw in his eyes made him weep. And very quietly, and very sadly, the old warlock said, ‘But I don’t want to die alone.’ ” He would pause then, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He looked at her gently, asking quietly, “Then do you know what happened?”

She shook her head, even though she did.

“An angel’s heart isn’t like a human heart you know. An angel’s heart is as stunning and breathtaking as their angel – and the beautiful angel’s heart was a beautiful one indeed. She was also a very kind heart, and so she reached up her little arms and wrapped them around the warlock, and she whispered in his ear–”

“ ‘You’re not alone. I’m here.’ ” Becca whispered. He paused, smiling lovingly at her.

“Exactly. And then the old warlock gave a happy cry, and died peacefully – for he wasn’t really very evil at all, just old and lonely. And the storyteller, crying with joy, swept up the heart of the angel and raced back down the mountain, for once the angel had her heart back she could love the storyteller as he loved her. And when the angel saw the storyteller bringing her heart back to her, she cried out in joy, just as the storyteller had, and flew down to meet with him. And do you know what then?” He smiled, gazing into space, savouring the words to come. “They lived happily ever after, just the three of them. The angel, the storyteller, and the angel’s heart.”

“Mummy, daddy and Becca.” Becca told him.

“Yes.” He laughed, kissing her cheek. “Mummy, daddy and Becca.”

Becca lay beside her mother, stroking her fair hair. Her father lay asleep in the chair beside the bed, a magazine clutched in his hands. Because he was asleep he didn’t see the little girl’s tears, dripping down into the starchy white hospital robe. And he didn’t hear the broken little words coming from the child’s pale pink lips.

“I think I know why you won’t wake up.” She confessed to her mother. “It’s not that daddy can’t find your heart again. Because your heart is right here, I can hear it.” She closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of that which was buried deep inside the woman’s chest. “It’s not that he can’t find your heart. He knows where it is. He knows where I am too – I’m not lost. I’m right here, mummy. Can you hear my voice?”

She choked a sob, gripping the blanket tucked neatly into the bed. “I know why you won’t wake up, mummy. It’s not because you can’t find your heart – it’s because you don’t want it any more. Isn’t it? It’s because you don’t want your heart any more, because you don’t want to feel any more. Because you’re depressed, and you’re always crying, and if you didn’t have your heart you wouldn’t feel all that sadness. Is that why you won’t wake up, mummy? Because I make you cry?”

Becca cried. She cried because her mother didn’t respond, and she cried because she knew she was right. She cried because her mother didn’t want to feel sad all the time, she knew she wanted to love Becca. But it was hard to love Becca, because she wouldn’t fit properly. And Becca loved her mummy, and her mummy loved her, even though it was hard, and both of them ended up hurting all the time. So Becca cried as she lay next to her mother, listening to her heartbeat.

Fade…

Once upon a time there was a beautiful angel. And even though the storyteller, who loved her with his all, had brought back her heart, she found she couldn’t feel love or joy any more. But that was okay, because like the warlock she wasn’t going to be alone when she died.

Her heart was there, holding her.