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by Charlie Lowrey

And he said, “I love you.”

So she nodded, as she ought to, as was appropriate and customary.

But it simply wasn’t good enough, according to her traditions. She shed one small tear because she loved him too. And because he didn’t know what was coming.

He was an outsider. Probably the reason she loved him anyway. But that didn’t change a thing.

Rules were rules here.

So she drilled his hands and feet to the floor.

He cried out the whole time, pleaded and threatened and begged. Of course, she had read the manual and knew this wasn’t uncommon. But she felt a stab at her heart the whole time.

Then using a scalpel and bone-saw, she opened his chest. This especially he cried the loudest during. This especially she cried the hardest—salty tears dripping into his chest as it split open.

Eventually he passed out, as was expected according to the manual. And so she extracted his heart; carefully and with precision, as she had been instructed. And she placed it in a jar, on a shelf, next to all the other hearts she had taken.

But she would always remember his as the warmest. As the best. It would always be his heart—floating in formaldehyde—which she would seek when she first came back to her room. It was always there to bring a smile to her face. It was a beautiful heart, and she would be able to always have it.

* * * 

Charlie Lowrey is a Colorado native trying to find his way in Los Angeles. Although a huge film buff, writing has always been his core passion and he thinks that, probably, without it he would go crazy (or more than he already is).

Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

Lately I've been finding music to be a huge inspiration, and not just in the sense that it sounds good, but literally certain lines will stand out to me and I'll say "I can write a whole story about that one line."