They’re gathered around the hospital bed. She lies there, and her head is shaved. She’s a frail little thing, 8 years old at the most.
I guess you could say cancer’s one of my allies; it delivers souls right into my outstretched arms. But as I look at the crowd around her bed, humans crying in the corner, humans trying to put up a brave face, sad humans and broken humans, I know that I prefer when cancer doesn’t meddle in my business.
I walk over to her, the smell of me escaping the humans’ notice. Her eyes are closed, but she has the faintest smile on her face. She looks beautiful, smiling in the midst of so much sadness. It’s a silent assurance to those around her, if only someone bothered to notice. But the time has come and a duty must be disposed of. I reach out, and her soul sits up.
“I knew you’d come.”
There’s no malice in her voice. Cancer isn’t the most comfortable of vehicles.
She climbs into my arms and looks around at the people gasping, pointing at her heart monitor, breaking into fresh bursts of tears. The façades crumble, and sadness overwhelms.
A solitary tear rolls down her cheek. She says she wants to leave.
A tear rolls down my cheek, too.
You see,
Even death has a heart.
