Diseased Jottings From A Random Mind

Taking HEART

It was three o'clock in the morning when they came. I was woken by someone pounding on the front door, and by the glare from the red and blue lights that came in through the crack in the curtains. As I stumbled down the stairs, the hammering at the door started again. "I'm coming!" I grumbled. "I'm coming!"

I opened the door, shivering in the cold night air. A young woman in a military uniform held up a sheet of paper. "Are you the legal guardian of Marcus Dowe?" she asked. I must have been slow in answering her because she repeated the question, only more forcefully than before. "Are you the legal guardian of Marcus Dowe?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm his - ." The woman didn't let me finish. Instead she stepped into the hallway.

"Your son is being drafted for service in accordance with the provisions of the HEART Act of 2018. Here is my warrant from the Surgeon General."

I looked at the flimsy sheet of paper she had thrust into my hands. It was covered in closely-printed legalese, with my son's name visible in bold, black type. At the bottom of the warrant were two embossed seals above a pair of scrawled signatures. I couldn't tell whether they were real or not, but I didn't care.

"What's this about?" I asked.

The woman's expression softened just a fraction. "Your son has been identified as having a tissue type compatible with an individual designated as being of economic or political importance to this country. That individual is undergoing a medical crisis. So, the government is drafting all potential donors. It's a precautionary measure - nothing more." Then she was all business once more. "Now, tell me where your son is."

"This way." I led the way up the stairs, followed by a quartet of soldiers in surgical-green uniforms. "Please," I said as I opened the door to my son's room. "Let me wake him."

One of the soldiers pushed me aside. "No physical contact is allowed with the draftee."

There was a scream - my son! "Mommy! Daddy!" I tried to force my way past the soldier, but he held me back.

"We're here!" I called to my son, trying to control my voice, hide the fear I was feeling. "Don't worry!"

I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a panicked voice in my ear. "What's going on?" I ignored the voice and tried to see what was happening to my son, but there was nothing to see until the soldiers came out into the hall, dangling my boy between them. They had put him in a straitjacket, his limbs bound to his sides. For a moment I wondered where they had got a straitjacket to fit such a young child. Then, my son saw us and wailed, "I don't wanna go!"

The soldier held us back until Marcus's crying faded away, then he stepped aside. The woman in uniform held out another piece of paper. "Your receipt. Sir. Ma'am." Like a fool, I took it.

Then they left.

I went to the Department of Health to get an explanation, to find out what was going to happen. Eventually I got to speak to someone. They took me into a small office, where an employee with a bland smile explained everything to me.

"It's in the title of the act," she said. "HEART - Helping Every Applicant Receive Treatment. Everyone in our nation is entitled to free treatment for any illness or injury, but in return they have to be prepared to give something back. It might be blood. It might be a vital organ. But it's only fair, isn't it?"

I tried to keep calm. "What about my son? What's going to happen to him?

"Your son has been taken into quarantine as a precaution. He will be looked after. Nobody wants him to come to any harm. After all, he's now vital our nation's interests."

"They were soldiers! In the middle of the night! With guns!"

The official's smile didn't falter. "Then it must be someone very important. You should be proud that your son has been selected for this service."

"Can I at least see my boy?" I pleaded. "Maybe bring him some toys?"

The official shook her head. "No. All draftees are held in quarantine until their services are no longer required."

"But he's only six!" I wanted to stand up, grab this woman by the shoulders and shake her until she gave in to me. But I didn't dare. There were signs everywhere warning of the penalties for 'interfering with the person of a government official in the course of their duties'.

"I'm sorry. The rules are the rules. I hope that you understand." She stood up, indicating that the interview was over.

We heard nothing more of our son for three weeks. All our questions, our protests, our pleas were met by a wall of official silence. Then, there was another knock at the door. It was another uniformed official. This one was solemn and respectful.

"We wish to thank you for your sacrifice," he began, but after that we heard no more. We, our son's parents, held each other tight, comforting each other in our grief.

We don't know who got our son's organs. They won't tell us. "It's to protect the privacy of the individual." But there must be some way to find out; there must be someone who will tell us. And, when I find out, I shall take them back. All I want to do is hold what's left of my son one last time.