Broken Heart

[Just a quick note to preempt any confusion, this short story was written to be a part of the Machine of Death Volume 2 anthology. Unfortunately it didn't make the cut so I thought I'd publish it here. Enjoy!]

To whom it may concern,

I remember once hearing a story about a man whose cause of death slip read “Ripcord Malfunction”. This man had never been near a parachute before he received the prediction and had had no real plans to go looking for one in the future. His father clapped him on the back and laughed, “that should be easy enough to avoid, eh?”

The story goes that this man, still just a boy of course, retreated to his room and thought long and hard about his prediction - I mean, who doesn’t? He thought about all he would need to do to put off his death by keeping himself away from the possibility of a “Ripcord Malfunction” for as long as possible. Basically, he would have to stay away from planes. And also lawnmowers. For that matter, any petrol-driven power tool. The more he thought about it, the more ripcords came to mind that would have to be avoided.

The world, which had once seemed an open road of dizzying possibilities, was suddenly reduced to potential perils to be avoided and an inevitable end that waited just over the horizon, behind the door or around the next corner. He hadn’t had any specific plans to travel but he had always had a faint suspicion that he might see the world at some point and all of a sudden he was hemmed in by the arbitrary and inescapable hand of inexplicable fate.

He pondered his predicament and eventually came to a surprising decision. He arranged to go sky diving. He got on a small noisy plane, was strapped to an experienced sky diver and with nary a moment of hesitation hurled himself from the plane. He had decided that he would not cower, he would not hide and he would not let the eventual cause of his death dictate the manner in which he lived his life.

Though I have my suspicions that this story might be a cunning example of pro-Machine propaganda, it always used to give me hope. I’ve heard a few versions of the tale in my time and in some the man goes on to become a professional sky diver (this, I think, is a little much). Another version has it that many years later, as he’s taking a walk in the park on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, he is hit and killed by a sky diver whose chute has failed to open. I assume the sky diver is killed too, but I’m not sure if this was ever made explicit.

When my time with the machine came, I was given one of the more bizarre predictions I’ve ever come across. I had it framed and I’m looking at it even as I write this. I can still make out the faded brown-orange smudge in the top left corner, where blood from the machine’s finger prick stained it in my haste to confront my own mortality. When I saw what it said I immediately wondered if someone was playing a trick on me.

“Broken Heart” it said. “Broken Heart”. I was young and strong and healthy and, whereas some of my friends’ slips were horribly graphic, my slip seemed so ambiguous as to be almost meaningless. Let me assure you that “Broken Heart” is a much easier cause of death to brush aside than, for example, “Choke On Toothpick”. Poor Lenny.

So I didn’t concern myself too much with what I deemed my fairytale demise and set about doing the things that boys do as they try to become men. I finished school, borrowed the car, went to parties, went to university; I drank, I danced, I worked, I chased and I lived. And there came one fateful night when my destiny started clicking into place. The night I first met Julia.

I say first met, inevitably it’s more needlessly complicated than that. She was the friend of a friend of one of my housemates in second year so I’d seen her around and knew who she was. It really doesn’t matter. The point is that we had never really spoken until we met in the smoking area of the Union.


It was a cool night and the heat-lamp-lit area was almost deserted as a particularly odious crowd favourite had just come on, drawing many to the dance floor. There was an air of serenity in the darkness, oddly underpinned by the muted sound of the music thumping from the Union in grubby waves of sweaty noise.

She asked me for a light and then asked me how my night was going. She waited for me to finish answering, her huge brown eyes focused on mine with an almost uncomfortable intensity, then lit her cigarette and began talking about some of our mutual friends. It’s strange, isn’t it? Those little things that your mind clings to. I couldn’t tell you now what she was wearing that night but, God, how I remember those eyes of hers and my surprise that she actually seemed to want to hear the answer to her question.

As I say, I had seen her around and certainly found her attractive (out of my league if you were to ask me) but as I spoke to her that night I remember becoming more befuddled, awestruck and horrifically nervous than I could ever remember being. Those limpid brown eyes kept sucking me in, that stare of hers consuming my thoughts until her eyes were the only thing left in the world. I’m sure she must have thought I was a drooling moron by the end of the night but nonetheless she gave me her number.

We met again and talked for hours as we wandered around the campus. She was a theology student and had opted out of reading her cause of death slip, entrusting the knowledge of her fate to the hands of medical researchers. I don’t know why I put those facts together, her objection to knowing her COD wasn’t religious as she explained to me once with a shrug, “God must want us to be able to know how we die, for whatever reason, I mean, where else is the information coming from?” As a devout atheist I had a few theories but I was much too enamoured and insecure to challenge her sure-footed intellectual faith.

She chewed on her lower lip squinting into the distance and continued, “I just can’t see how my life would be improved by knowing how it ends, you know?” She regarded me carefully for a moment, “I can only see how knowing that would make things worse. Would make me be afraid. Ultimately,” she adopted a charming bolshy tone, shaking off the topic like rainwater, “it’s something I’d really rather not think about until it’s already happened, you know?” She flashed a big grin at me and hugged my linked arm closer to her. “So how are you going to die?” She asked with a mischievous twinkle. I told her that she was going to break my heart and she stopped, hit me with that stare and, with a soft little smile, said “That doesn’t seem likely.”

Our relationship blossomed quickly and with the fierce passion of youth. For me it was like the world had a new colour, like I had been half a thing and was now unexpectedly whole. As sappy as it might seem, I could finally appreciate the sonnets and the serenades whose techniques, allusions and references we would catalogue in such dry detail in our dusty lectures and hung-over seminars. And as my affection grew I found myself looking more and more often at that framed slip of card and those two terrifying words, "Broken Heart".

It became clear to me day by day that this woman was going to be the death of me. And, daft as it may sound, it wasn’t the death that concerned me so much as the manner of the hurt. A broken heart. Betrayal perhaps? The thing didn’t bear thinking about. In fact, the mere thought was unbearable. If offering your heart to someone is the scariest thing a person can do (and it is), then imagine that it has been predetermined that this reaching, this perilous and painful need for the person you love to reciprocate, was fated to end in a misery so acute that it would actually be terminal. Part of me wanted to take hold of that ripcord and throw myself off the plane regardless but I was too young, too proud and much too deeply afraid.

I broke it off after graduation. She had seen it coming. I had distanced myself from her in an effort to convince her to break up with me. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had still been in my life, I might have called those the worst months of my life. “So this is what you call living then, is it?” She had asked, her fierce expression blotched with crying, staring straight into my eyes, “Well, I hope you have a long, miserable life, you stupid bastard.”

I wandered through the next few months in something of a haze; often drunk and always numb. I fell into a job which slowly crystallised into a career and I eventually started dating again. Girlfriends came and went as relationship after relationship fizzled before the ever-increasing time constraints of my occupation. Obviously it was more than that though. The fact was that I had hardened in the aftermath of my relationship with Julia. Some of the women I dated appreciated what they saw as my “laid-back attitude”. Safe in the knowledge that I wasn’t going to get clingy we had fun for a while and cheerfully called it a day when it had run its course.

Some were more frustrated by my apparent lack of interest in the future and there were several occasions on which the ball-shrivelling question “do you love me?” was uttered. That was always a guaranteed relationship-ender. I may be a damned fool, or as one of my ex-girlfriends, Sally Ross, once put it, “an emotionally stunted man-child shithead” (she actually continued beyond this point but it became so shrill that comprehension was all but impossible), but I am not a liar. Certainly not about something like that.

It was a full thirty years before I saw Julia again. By this point she was married and had two children. We met at the 50th birthday party of a mutual friend from university and, after some tense scenes, began talking. Soon we stole away from the party and strolled through the quiet streets of the commuter suburb around the house, shared a cigarette and talked for hours, just like in the old days - although sadly absent of the touching and kissing.

After a while it became clear to me that there was something that she was holding back, something that was bothering her, so I urged her to tell me what was on her mind. She smiled that old wry, mischievous smile and shook her head, “Not even Rory has asked me that.” She began with a sigh, “Of course I think deep down he knows he wouldn’t like the answers to a lot of the questions that he’d like to ask me.” She looked down for a moment, chewed on her bottom lip and rubbed the knuckle of her index finger down over her cheekbone. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the band of gold a couple of fingers down her hand.

She sighed, closed her eyes tight for a moment and then turned to look me straight in the eyes, “I’ve been diagnosed with stomach cancer.” She said in a quick, controlled burst of information. “The doctors say I only have a couple of years left to live.” My heart dropped into my stomach and a rushing silence enveloped me as I held her gaze. It was cool, dark and quiet. Stars twinkled obliviously in the impossible, unknowable darkness above us and she waited, staring at me. I didn’t seem to have enough air in my lungs to talk. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the world.

She pulled her eyes away and looked down as she ground out the cigarette she had been holding. “You know what the funny thing is?” she asked with a sad little smile as she lifted her eyes to meet mine once more, “It’s almost like a reversal of where we were thirty years ago. Now I know how I’m going to die and you’re so closed off I honestly believe you might live forever” she patted my chest fondly as she said this, presumably to let me know that she didn’t mean to rebuke me. Her words hurt nonetheless. Granted it was a paper-cut next to the cannon-hole of her announcement, but the words still hurt.

Her hand moved absently to the lapel of my jacket and then up to pat my cheek softly. “We had some good times, didn’t we?” she asked rhetorically. I nodded with a gulping croak and it was only as she wiped my tears away with her thumb that I realised I had been crying. “I’ll see you inside.” She said softly, turning back toward the house, “Take your time.”

I found a bench a little further down the quiet suburban road and sat to smoke another couple of cigarettes as I tried to compose myself. Smoking, my university affectation had become a somewhat unfortunate emotional leveller and I definitely needed time and nicotine in equal measures to deal with what had just happened. It began to dawn on me that somewhere, deep within my sub-conscious, there was a part of me that had taken comfort from the fact that she was out there, somewhere.

I also slowly realised that the meagre hours we had just spent together had eclipsed some of my happiest moments from the last thirty years. This was a real shock. I had thought I’d shaken her; gotten her out of my system. There had been long stretches of time over which I’d managed not to think about her at all but right now, in the fading afterglow of her presence, it felt like I’d simply gotten used to the cold.

I returned to the party to find her saying her goodbyes to our mutual friend. I asked to have a word before she left. Our friend raised her eyebrow at Julia and, with a knowing smile, advised her to behave herself. I stuck my tongue out at this and led Julia outside. She laid a finger across my lips before I could say anything and filled the noise of my name with such regret that it made my heart ache, “I think I know what you’re going to say” she continued, “and it’s not going to happen. We had our time and, I’m not trying to be cruel but, it was your decision to end it.” I tried to interrupt but she stopped me again, “Please, let me finish.”

She laid her palm against my chest and looked down at my feet, gathering her thoughts, “I didn’t tell you what I told you tonight...” she took a deep breath and looked into my eyes, “I didn’t tell you that to try and...restart...us.” The palm against my chest balled into a fist, “That’s all done with now. It’s ancient history and we’ve both moved on. I’ve got children now, a husband even.” The fist against my chest started punctuating points with soft thuds. My body thrilled at every touch and all I could do was stare at her, enraptured, drinking in her presence and her touch with a desperation stirred by the horrifying knowledge that she could turn and leave at any moment.

“I just needed someone to talk to. I just needed you, someone, to understand. I just...” she trailed off and her forehead thumped against my sternum next to her fist, “I’m just so afraid”. I stood for a moment looking down at the top of her head, feeling her body shudder against mine before she looked up at me with a tear-sodden chuckle, “For God’s sake, man, would you just hug me already?” I quickly acquiesced and, wrapping my arms around her, felt her melt into me with a sigh.

She muttered something into my jacket. I felt more than heard the muffled comment and asked her to repeat, loosening my arms around her to take a loose grip of her shoulder blades. She looked up at me, arms still looped around to the small of my back. Her expression was much more composed now as she stared her serious stare and said, "I still think you're a fucking moron by the way." I thought about this for a moment before agreeing that that made two of us.

I offered to walk her to her car. She looked at me for a second before giving a sharp nod and breaking away from me. In a flash of disappointment I toyed with the idea of taking her hand but it seemed to me that the moment had a butterfly-like fragility to it, so I plunged my clumsy hands into my pockets and followed her down the car-filled gravel drive. I wondered idly where all the designated drivers had been hiding out - I hadn't seen many sober faces inside.

I walked half a step behind her, not knowing which car would be hers. Soon enough the lights of a nearby Volvo flashed, machinery whirred and two blips sounded in the darkness as she spun to lean back against the driver’s-side door with her arms spread wide. She grinned impishly and asked, "What do you think of my ride?" I whistled appreciatively and told her that it was the finest balance of sex and safety that I had ever seen. "Is that all you ever think about?" She laughed. I told her that safety was important.

"Do you need a ride anywhere?" She asked me, her eyes unreadable. Fortunately I had already made my mind up on this point. I told her I was alright for a ride but that I would definitely need to see her again. Her eyes widened slightly and she looked away from me, chewing on her bottom lip. Eventually she nodded her quick little nod. "So will I." She said, her voice cracking slightly, “God help me, so will I.” We stared at each other for a moment. A soft breeze pushed a few strands of hair across her face and she lifted her hand to tuck them back behind her ear.

She looked down coyly for a moment and then met my eyes with that mischievous half smile that always used to make me melt and harden at once. It had lost none of its potency. “Come here” was all she said. I stepped forward, moved in close to her and slid my hand up the back of her neck. Then I leaned in slowly, feeling her quick breath on my face, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest. My thumb caressed a spot behind her ear that I knew drove her crazy and our lips met.

Soft and careful yet firm and passionate, the sensation of it surged through me like a water on parched soil. It overwhelmed me, threatened to consume me and revived in me a thirst I thought I’d forgotten. When it was done we found ourselves gazing at each other, lost in the moment, until a party cracker snapped through the quiet night from the house above. We jumped and smiled foolishly at one another.

“I’d better go” she said, pulling open the door to her car. “Don’t call me, alright? I’ll get in touch with you.” Her tone left no room for argument. I nodded and asked if that was a promise. “That’s a guarantee.” She said softly and closed the door. I followed the car a little way down the drive and watched as she waited to pull out. I waved, whispered softly that I loved her and was turning to go when a heavy goods vehicle barrelled into the driver’s side of the Volvo at 60 miles an hour.

Killed on impact was the paramedics’ conclusion. I know this to not be the case. After about 10 seconds spent trying to get my head around what had just happened I started sprinting towards where her car had been flipped onto the verge on the other side of the road. I remember noticing that the music back at the house seemed to have stopped. I ran as fast as I could, reckless and heedless across the dark debris-strewn road, as if my speed alone might save her. I’d seen the impact, heard the thunderous crash - felt it even. Deep down a part of me knew there was no hope. But I had to try.

There was so much blood and, above the sound of creaking metal and tinkling glass, there was a high-pitched whistle. I’ll never forget that sound. The car had caved in and pinned her to her seat, clamping around her chest. Had she been free of that restriction, that shrill whistle would have been a torturous and constant scream. I frantically scrabbled for a way to get her free. I told her that everything was going to be alright, that I was going to save her. She called my name and said, “It hurts so much.” Then she died.

I’m told that people from the party found me a few minutes later clawing at the car door and howling, hands covered in Julia’s blood as well as my own from where I had been scratched and had ripped my nails off  trying to pry the door open. I don’t really remember much beyond her last words and that terrified look in her eyes, those big beautiful brown eyes, as the light faded from them.

After 30 years, 30 years pointlessly spent without her, I had realised my mistake, had realised what she had tried to tell me all those years ago. And it was too late. Almost the split second that I had allowed myself to love her, she had been ripped away from me, like some kind of sick cosmic prank. So now there is no colour, no truth in sonnets and I am only a half of a thing that knows it will never again be whole.

Though my cause of death slip would perhaps have been more accurate if it had said “37 sleeping tablets washed down with Scotch” I can’t fault the poignancy of the statement. In truth I died that night with Julia. If I’m honest, I’d always found the prospect, though obviously terrifying, to be slightly romantic. “How did he die?” people would softly enquire. “It was a broken heart.” would be the gentle response. “Oh my!” the inquirer would reply, “how dreadful.”

“That and an overdose” the respondent would then clarify. Because it’s nonsense really. There are no noble deaths, they’re all pointless, ugly, arbitrary and we all shit ourselves at the end. Most are lucky enough to never see it coming. But not me. No, today I die overwhelmed by my broken heart, hoping that I might get to see Julia again. Objectively I don’t believe I will. Either way, it’s an end to it.

Yours faithfully,