After my aunt leaves, I lay back against the pillows, the solitary rhythm of the monitors keeping time with the absolute silence outside the door. They must have stepped away or dropped their voices to a secretive, hushed whisper. I try to calm my racing thoughts, but the heart monitor betrays the panic rising in my throat.
It starts slow.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Then the rhythm shifts, stuttering into an erratic gallop.
Beep-beep.
Beep-beep.
Beep-beep.
Beep-beep.
And faster, the sound growing high-pitched and frantic.
Beep-beep-beep.
Beep-beep-beep.
Beep-beep-beep.
Beep-beep-beep.
Suddenly, a cold dread washes over me as I realize my anxiety isn't what's forcing the machine into a frenzy.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep!
The walls tilt violently. The room begins to spin into a sickening vortex of shadows. Panic surging through my veins, I frantically reach out, my blind fingers searching the darkness for anything to smash, anything to scream for help. I open my mouth to wail for my aunt, but all that rips from my throat is a wet, agonizing cough that blankets my lips in hot fluid.
The heavy, unmistakable taste of copper floods my mouth. It instantly triggers a buried childhood memory—the time I swallowed a handful of pennies on a stupid dare and spent days vomiting from the poison.
Desperate, I swing my legs over the frame, but my feet are entirely numb. The floor vanishes beneath me, and I crash hard onto the cold floorboards. This is it. I am dying. With the absolute last shred of my strength, I claw at the nearest rolling monitor and yank it downward with a deafening, shattering crash.
A minute passes. Maybe two.
The light is fading from my mind. The screaming alarm of the machine begins to fracture, staggering into a hollow, agonizing crawl.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
B e e p.
B e e p.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—
Total, suffocating blackness swallows me whole, dragging me down into a freezing void. I want a blanket. I want my aunt. I want to—
"Bella!"
A distant, desperate voice echoes through the dark.
"BELLA!"
I can hear it, but... that isn't my name. Is it? My memories are slipping away like smoke. I don't know who I am anymore.
"MOLLY! MOLLY, COME ON, WAKE UP!"
Aunt Marcy?
"Will someone please remove that skin graft?!"
Who is that?
"Come on, stay with us, kid."
Nurse Ann?
"This is all my fault."
Hobo Heart.
Beep.
The shock hits my chest.
Beep-beep.
The fire returns.
Beep-beep-beep.
It burns. It hurts so badly.
Beep-beep-beep-beep!
Take it out. Please, just take it out. I don't want it anymore!
"What the hell is she doing?!"
"HOLD HER DOWN!"
"Someone get the restraints, now!"
"STOP! STOP!"
A heavy, absolute silence suddenly drops over the room. I still can't see a single thing—everything is trapped behind a veil of pitch-black static. But my right hand isn't empty. My fingers are tightly clamped around something thick, squishy, and dripping with a hot, wet fluid.
Inside my palm, the mass violently twitches.
"Molly... please put that down carefully. Y-you need that," my aunt's voice pleads from the darkness. It is trembling, completely shattered by a raw, primitive fear I have never heard from her before.
A hollow, chilling smile spreads across my face at the sound. I feel a sudden, intoxicating shift in power. For the first time, the shadows seem to recoil from me, rather than closing in. I realize then that the agony wasn't just physical—it was a rejection of everything they tried to force back into my body.
"Molly, stay still!" a voice roars, thick with desperation.
Before I can move, a massive weight slams into me, pinning my shoulders against the floorboards. I hear my aunt cry out in horror as hands grasp my wrists, holding me down while the room seems to vibrate with a low, unnatural hum. Someone is breathing raggedly over me, their presence cold and heavy. "Dear god... she can't see us. She's blind."
"What?! How is that possible?!" Marcy's voice is a frantic scramble.
"The systemic rejection has reached a critical threshold," an unfamiliar, clinical voice explains from the gloom, sounding detached and disturbingly calm. "When the body fights itself this violently, the collateral damage is catastrophic. The optic nerves have been overwhelmed. Whether this is permanent is a question only time can answer. For now, we have to stabilize her before she causes any more damage to the surgical site."
"It hurt," I whisper into the void, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else.
The grip on my wrists loosens slightly. "What do you mean it hurt, Molly?"
"The rhythm... the pressure... the feeling of something that doesn't belong to me," I say, staring into the static. "I didn't want it. I don't need a heart to exist anymore. You showed me that yourself."
A heavy silence follows, broken only by the distant, stuttering restart of a monitor. The room feels cold as they lift me back onto the bed, my movements sluggish and my mind drifting.
"Well," my aunt finally says, her voice brittle and drained of hope. "The graft failed and she's lost her sight. What is the solution now?"
The silence that follows is absolute, leaving only the dark uncertainty of what comes next.
YOU ARE READING
hobo heart x reader. Perhaps we value each other?
FanfictionThe world of creepy pasta. Is it real? This is a question you have had since you were young when you found your aunt's diary that portrayed amazing adventures with many of them such as Jeff the killer, Laughing Jack, Eyeless Jack, and your favorite...
