Home is Where the Disembodied Heart Is

[Amalia Eckern]

Amalia sat cross-legged in her pajamas and watched the beating heart. For the past few weeks the damn thing had sat in the center of her room, floating, throbbing, and dripping blood. She had sat a bucket beneath it to catch the blood, but that was the least of her concerns. It had taken her long enough to earn a room on the Desamparado Wharf and now she couldn’t even sleep in it. And believe me she tried. After all she had grown up being tormented by all sorts of ghosts and spectres, sleeping in the presence of a ghoul was something she learned out of necessity. This one however, this one was loud like, way too fucking loud. Every last meaty throb or pulse in the disembodied organ shook the walls of her shantyhouse.

“You should bite it,” Her hair whispered aggressively into her ear, “You should rip it open… with your teeth.”

“Gross,” She whispered back.

“Gross? Imagine the hot blood running down your throat,” Her hair purred, “Fine, tear it open with your claws.”

Her nails were most certainly not claws. Amalia stood up and stepped barefoot across the uneven plank flooring. Her hair writhed violently and the head of a raven materialized from the strands, it looking over her shoulder excitedly at the floating organ.

“Yes. YES, CRUSH IT BETWEEN YOUR FINGERS, AMALIA!”

“Hush, Erin,” Amalia batted the raven’s beak and it sank back into her follicles.

Amalia had learned to ignore most spirits, attention tended to make them more persistent. The heart, however, seemed to be absolutely apathetic to her presence. She’d leave for work in the morning and come back hours later with it still faithfully beating away. It was sort of frustrating if she was being honest. Spirits tended to have egos, they had desires and demands and ultimatums. These were things she could appease or exploit, but the heart seemed to want nothing more than to leak blood onto her floor.

“Uhm…” Amalia said, “Is anyone in there?”

No answer beyond the standard rhythmic lub-dub.

“Look, you’ve been ruining my sleep,” She explained, “If you don’t say something I’m gonna get rid of you, okay?”

“GOUGE OUT ITS EYES” Her hair screamed.

Amalia shot over her shoulder, “Erin, be quiet… and, hearts don’t have eyes.”
Still, the heart kept its consistent one-two beat. Amalia sighed and wrapped her hand around the organ. It was like holding a handful of sewn-together earthworms. She shuddered and whispered encouraging words to herself. She tried to pull the thing towards her. It refused to budge, stretching against some unknown anchor within its throbbing mass. Desperately she pushed instead, trying to force it towards the door of her hovel. She hoped to throw it into the ocean outside, but it did not move an inch. Exhausted, she let go. Her hand was covered in a slimy skin of steaming-hot blood. The sight of it made her queasy and she held her hand out as if it didn’t belong to her.

“Ew, ew, ew,” She whispered, stepping around the heart and outside.

She didn’t have running water, most residents of the wharf didn’t. Normally this wasn’t much of an issue, they did have holes in their rooms that dumped into the ocean to do their business, but washing one's hand in that hole seemed unsanitary. So instead she stepped outside. Drips of rain soaked into the soft linen of her pajamas, but it wasn’t too bothersome - you got used to being wet living on the wharf. Her bare feet gripped the slick planks of the floating vessel, finding purchase in the uneven and cobbled together floor. She moved to an edge and crouched down, washing her hand in the sea water as it passed by. Silently she wondered if anyone besides her could even see the blood from a ghost heart.

“Late night Miss Eckern?”

She nearly jumped overboard from the surprise.

“Thiago!” She exclaimed, turning to face him, “Sorry, you scared me, and uh, yeah… couldn’t get to sleep.”

Thiago seemed to never sleep himself. The old man patrolled the wharf day and night, walking along and smoking on a joint that never seemed to be quite finished. In fact, he was quite an oddity when compared to the burly sailor types that called the Desamparado Wharf their home. He was rail thin, with clothing that only exaggerated his emaciation. His gray hair was tied back into a big poofball, that begged to get tangled up in rigging or an errant fishing line. Still, despite these oddities no one paid him much mind.

“What’s got you troubled, Miss Eckern?” He said, cool as ice, “You looked more frazzled than usual.”

She looked frazzled normally?

“Nothing, just uh, bad dream,” Amalia answered, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, “Sorry, I’m fine, really, you don’t need to worry about me.”

He nodded and looked out to the sea, “Storm’s coming, Miss Eckern, storm’s comin’.”

All she could think about was the fucking lump of meat throbbing in her room. Maybe Erin was right about chopping it into pieces.

“Look, sorry, I need to get going,” Amalia said quickly, shuffling back towards her home, “Need to get some rest before my shift.”

Thiago exhaled a plume of smoke, “Take care of yourself, I’ll be wishin’ better dreams your way.”

 

[Amalia Eckern]

As was expected Amalia didn’t get much sleep. She lazily watched the throbbing heart through half-closed eyes and drifted between sleep and cognizance. Time blitzed onward, each second recorded by a heartbeat. Eventually the sun invited itself into her home, creeping along the wooden planks before crawling into her bed. She was going to be late. She laid in bed for a few more minutes before standing. Poverty had reduced her morning routine to nothing more complex than slipping into her street clothes and brushing her teeth with a not-completely-disgusting toothbrush she had found. Clad in a red hoodie that hadn’t been washed for a few days she stepped outside to greet the day.

Much like any sea-hulk worth its salt the Desamparado Wharf was made from cobbled together wreckage. It listed across Opealon’s surface, each of its constituent parts bobbing up and down to the whims of the waves. There was some direction in its wandering, massive networks of rigging and sails more or less worked in unison to move the wharf along. Smaller vessels went to and fro like worker bees in a hive, each of them with a purpose whether it be fishing, trade, or good ol’ fashioned piracy. There was a nauseating chaos to the place, something that she had grown to bitterly accept. Walkways would vanish and new ones would appear as more and more driftwood was lashed to the behemoth. Directions were given as vague descriptions and punctuality was only expected from the most unreasonable of people.

Her boss was one of these people. She hurried through the labyrinth of salty wood and sea spray. She climbed up networks of rope and padded along slick platforms with not nearly enough handrails. Every now and again the wharf would shudder and she would fall. This was no doubt the result of some hidden sea beast testing if the wharf would make a good treat. All things considered she figured she had made good time. The sun hadn’t even reached a quarter of the ways into the sky as she stepped in through the front door of Salty Sal’s Scullery.

“You’re late again, Pinche,” Miguel said as Amalia tied the back of her apron.

She hadn’t quite figured out what “pinche” meant yet. She had asked Thiago once and he said it was just a word for sous chef, but Miguel used it in a way that seemed to have a bit more meaning than that. Regardless, the thick-armed sea dog had given her a job despite her inexperience and so she had learned to accept a bit of roughness.

“Sorry Miguel,” She said, “Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“You’ll be sleeping worse without a job,” He said, shuffling out of the kitchen, “Now get to it Pinche we’ve got mouths to feed.”

Asshole.

The day stretched on as Amalia performed all of the kitchen prepwork. There was a certain sense of pride in what she did. A month ago she couldn’t have even chopped through an onion without slicing her finger off. Now she blitzed through meal prep quick enough that there was time for a break before the lunch rush. However, it was during the final stages of prep that she ran into a snag.

“Please child, spare my life and you’ll be rewarded handsomely,” The fish on her cutting board spoke, “I am a prince after all, I swear on my royal blood that you shall be compensated greatly if only you release me back into the sea.”

Amalia stood silent, cleaver in hand. She’d never get used to dealing with fish spirits. The fishmongers would come by every morning with a fresh haul and unbeknownst to them they’d be offloading all manner of aquatic spectres. Most of these spectres were harmless, practically non-sentient things like spectral phyto-plankton, but every now and again she’d be stuck with a tuna that swore it was some noble. At first she had released them out of pity, but after getting caught and chewed on by Miguel (not to mention they never did come through with the reward) it was easier for her to do her job.

“Sorry guy, I got a job to do,” Amalia muttered.

She lowered the cleaver the fish’s neck line, lining up her chop.

“No! Don’t!” The fish exclaimed, “Do you not know who I am? I am Greybelly the 3rd, last of my family line! If you kill me my kingdom will fall!”

“Sorry about your luck fish,” She said, “But, there’s no hope for the hopeless.”

“What do you want? Money? Power? Child, I am the prince of an entire kingdom I can give you all that and--”

With a practiced motion she severed the fish’s head from its body. It flexed and twitched for a moment before going limp. She grabbed a shorter knife and began carving into its body, butchering it down into filets. Her hair rustled and the raven’s head materialized from the strands. It looked over her shoulder at the fresh kill.

“Your ruthlessness fills my belly with warmth,” Erin preened, “Now chew through its meat.”

“Come on Erin, not at work,” Amalia said, setting aside the filets and slapping another fish onto her cutting board.

“Bah, work, all you ever do is work,” She answered, “You need to rout your enemies and crush their bones beneath your heels.”

She didn’t really have enemies, and when asked who these enemies were Erin never gave a straight answer. Still, she’d be lying if she didn’t occasionally daydream about following Erin’s advice. She imagined becoming a pirate captain, leader of her own ship. She could come and go as she pleased. She’d be free to see the other wharfs of the world and not just be confined to Salty Sal’s Scullery. Unfortunately, without money and more importantly, experience she was stuck cleaving fish heads. After all, there was no hope for the hopeless.

 

[Amalia Eckern]

The lunch rush came and went in a flurry of orders and frenetic cooking. Amalia found a sort of zen-like comfort in it. There was no floating heart to consider nor princely tunafish, just whatever order was next. She was free to turn her brain off and simply focus on the task at hand. Eventually the frantic pace slowed and the lunch rush came to an end as workers filtered back to their jobs. Once the final order was sent out Amalia exhaled and relaxed, sitting down on an overturned crate. She closed her eyes for a moment, just to rest them, but her body had other plans.

“Tu hijo de puta,” Miguel's voice thundered, “ wake up Pinche!”

Amalia jolted awake, peeling her face from the ground. Her entire body ached as her muscles rebelled from falling asleep at such an odd angle. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. Miguel stood over her, a giant silhouetted by the overhead lights. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, catching herself on the nearby sink. He reeked of perfume.

“Sleeping on the job, no good Pinche, no good,” Miguel shook his head.

“Sorry…” Amalia muttered, still half-asleep. She caught sight of the clock, her heart jumped and the world crystallized around her. How could she have slept for so long without anyone noticing? Fuck, dinner was in just a few minutes. She moved towards her work station, she needed to get caught up.

“Uh uh,” Miguel stepped in front of her, “No way, you’re fired Pinche.”

“What?!” Amalia exclaimed, trying to push past him, “No, I’m fine Miguel, sorry it’s been--”

“It’s always been something with you, if you’re not late you’re slow and you always got an excuse, I’m done with you, leave,” Miguel interrupted.

“Wait, please, I’m sorry,” Amalia pleaded, “Give me another chance Miguel.”

“I’ve already called Javier in to cover your shift,” He explained, “now leave.”

Amalia stepped back and looked up at Miguel. There was no softness in his features, no sympathy or even pity.

“Fine,” Amalia said, “Give me my check and I’ll go.”

At this Miguel softened, his face turning into a grin before outright bursting into a laugh.

“You think I’m going to pay you?” He said, chuckling, “Pinche, do you have any idea how much money I’m going to lose tonight because of your fuck up? You’re lucky I’m letting you leave without paying me.”

“Are you kidding me?” She said, “Miguel you can’t do this.”

“Who says I can’t?” He chuckled, “This isn’t the City of Hope, now get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

Amalia squeezed her fists tight, tears welled up in her eyes, “No.”

“I said ‘leave’”

Erin’s beak materialized in her hair and whispered in her ear, “Rip his throat out.”

“I’m not leaving until you pay me,” Amalia said, her voice cracking and tears running down her cheeks.

“I’m not fuckin’ paying you,” He shouted, “Do I have to throw you out myself?”

“Peel back his skin,” Erin whispered.

“No,” Amalia croaked.

Miguel growled and grabbed her wrist, yanking her across the kitchen.

“Let go of me!” She yelped and twisted against his firm grip.

“You’re the one making this difficult,” He growled and dragged her towards the door. Halfway across she slipped and fell, but he didn’t stop pulling. She scraped against the wooden planks, an exposed nail catching her in the ribs.

“Ow, fuck!” She exclaimed.

“BREAK HIS FINGERS”

“What the fuck?” Miguel exclaimed.

Her black hair became pale as Amalia willed Erin into existence. The raven clawed free from her hair, materializing mid-flight into the kitchen. Miguel exclaimed and released Amalia, but it was too late. Erin screeched, her voice shattering glassware and rattling the walls. The spirit descended upon Miguel. He screamed and thrashed against the raven’s talons, but it continued to tear into his exposed flesh. Blood streamed from his face as it raked its talons over his left eye.

Amalia stood up and shouted, “Erin stop, he’s let go!”

“DIE!” The dog-sized bird screamed, “DIE AND DONATE YOUR FLESH TO MY STOMACH LINING!”

“Erin!” Amalia shouted, her now-white hair writhing around her, “I said stop!”

Reluctantly the bird retreated, landing on Amalia’s shoulder. Her talons still dripping with Miguel’s blood. Miguel lay crammed in the corner, his face a barely recognizable mangle of meat. Amalia cringed and crouched down beside him. This wasn’t what she wanted. She forced Erin back into her hair, dematerializing the spirit back into her body.

“I’m sorry,” She said, “You scared me and… and-”

“You fucking monster,” Miguel moaned.

“Here I can help,” She said, grabbing a clean rag to push against his wounds, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Miguel lurched forward to push her away, “Get out! Get the fuck out and leave me alone!”

Amalia recoiled. He hesitated for a moment before running outside. The sun had begun to set, casting a red-blue haze over the wharf. She ran the whole way home.

 

[Amalia Eckern]

Amalia sat against the wall just outside her cabin, tears still hot in her eyes. The heart was still there, pumping away, pumping loud enough that she could hear it over the crash of waves on the wharf. Overhead the sky began to open up, a storm had rolled in while she was napping at work. Still, rain or not, she couldn’t find the mental real-estate to deal with her unwanted house guest. She couldn’t even wear her hoodie, Miguel’s blood was still all over it from where Erin had landed her bloody claws. So she stood outside, trying not to cry and failing, all the while the disembodied heart throbbed.

“Why do you cry?” Erin whispered, “We enacted our vengeance.”

“Shut up,” Amalia responded, “I didn’t want vengeance.”

Erin’s body materialized from Amalia’s hair, the bird's talons lightly gripping her shoulder. Quietly the Erinys hopped down, fluttering her wings slightly. Amalia watched as the spirit strutted back and forth, preening her feathers. Miguel’s blood was nowhere to be found on the bird and Amalia shuddered to think about where it had gone.

“This place is cruel, this world is cruel,” Erin said, “Your only choices are to suffer or become crueler.”

“No one asked you,” Amalia said.

“Why should you not defend yourself?” Erin asked, “Why choose to suffer when you can choose to end it?”

“Shut up.”

Amalia clutched her knees to her chest. She had run out of tears, but the rain made for a good substitute. In front of her Erin paced back and forth, occasionally pecking at some invisible bug scurrying across the wooden planks.

“Don’t you want respite?” Erin asked, “Don’t you want vengeance against them? All of the ones that put you where you are today? Don’t you want to see them suffer like you have?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Amalia whispered at first, but her temper began to flare. Her hair had become pale and started to writhe as if it were alive. She shouted, “I don’t want any of this!”

“But you have a gift,” Erin cawed excitedly, “You have power greater than anyone could hope for!”
Amalia stood up, wiping fresh tears from her eyes, “I don’t want power! I want to be normal!”

Each word slammed into the raven spirit like a flurry of ocean squalls. It’s small body dematerialized, breaking apart into dust to be swept away by the storm. She was left with nothing but the sound of rain. Nothing but the sound of rain and the throbbing heart still in her home. Still seething she stormed into her cabin. The heart still sat suspended midair, beating its measured rhythm.

“Leave,” She said, “Leave, damn you.”

There was no response. She reached for her only kitchen knife, an unbalanced thing with a rough blade. She marched towards the organ, standing in front of it for a few moments before raising her weapon. She had never killed a spirit before, they either moved on of their own accord or became incorporated into her body. Despite this inexperience she knew they could be killed. The anti-paranormal divisions of the City of Hope proved that quite effectively. Besides Erin all of her other spirits had been exorcised and purged from existence. Without another thought she brought the knife down towards the heart.

The entire room shuddered, seeming to nearly compress in on itself. A hand materialized from nothingness and caught her wrist midair. Another wrapped around her forearm, pulling it away from the heart. Disembodied green hands continued to blink into reality and pile upon her arm. The knife clattered to the ground as it was peeled from her grip. Outside a thunderstrike boomed.

“I am a servant of the storm,” the heart boomed, it’s voice weighing against her like a lead sheet, “You bring violence against one such as I?”

“Let me go!” Amalia shouted, “And get out of my house!”

“Child, I serve a force far greater than your notions of property, there is a storm upon the horizons and I have come to bear witness to the great and--”

There was an audible gasp as Amalia surged forward and sank her teeth into the heart’s flesh. It was like biting into an elastic band covered in sweat wrapped around a steak. A flurry of hands grabbed at her body, wrapping around her throat and shoulders. She gagged, but did not release her bite. Hands gripped her chin and forehead, trying to forcibly pull her mouth open. Her throat burned and tried in vain to gulp down air. Finally there was a slick pop as her teeth punctured the organ’s rubbery skin. Blood, as salty as seawater and as cold as the ocean, rushed down her throat and spilled upon the floor. Her teeth clacked together as they sheared a piece of meat away and she was thrown to the ground. Amalia swallowed hard, consuming the chunk of meat in one gulp.

“What… what have you done?” The spirit demanded. Blood sprayed out from the bite wound, painting the walls of her cabin with that salt-water blood. It throbbed once more before deflating like a balloon and disintegrating.

Amalia sat quietly for a long while, simply listening to the sound of the rain. The spectral blood sizzled and vanished. Her hair became black and inanimate, falling over her shoulders like a curtain. It was over. She started crying again, relief washing over her. She could finally sleep.