The human heart is an amazing thing, the centre cog integral to a machine unmatched in sheer complexity. Pumping several dozen million gallons of blood and beating billions more throughout a lifetime, there truly is no equal. This is why, most likely, many frowned upon your recent breakthrough. ‘Frowned upon’, to put it lightly.

“You can’t be serious, Dr. Retford? Are you saying this was tested on actual human beings?” The first reporter yelled.

“What ramifications will this have on the medical world? On the criminal world, the black market?” Another cut in.

“This is devilry, plain and simple, Retford! Your ‘breakthrough’ has damned us all!” A third shrieked. That last one wasn’t even a reporter. Not a reputable one. So you damned the whole world in your pursuit of “science.” Or was it the guilt? Yet another selfish and drastic attempt to atone for your failures. It doesn’t matter. Why you did it is a question for yesterday, before you revealed such a dark truth to the masses. Before you made undeveloped, frozen hearts a commodity. A better question for you would be…

“What will you do about it now?” Standing in front of an ocean of cameras and microphones, you raise your head and begin to talk.

“I am sorry if some of you think my findings reprehensible but I do truly believe this to be the path forward. The path to true human evolution, to the end of so much suffering. I will continue to experiment and test my research so as to eliminate all other variables, but in the meantime…” You take a deep breath. “I intend to roll out my research to medical research centres worldwide to allow fresh eyes to do the same. Tomorrow. Together, we will eliminate heart disease. We will eliminate disease of the genetic variety, and we will eliminate the risk of lethal infections. That is what I, what we, will do in the coming months.”

The crowd quiets, reporters taking in the first words out of your mouth since the announcement. Undoubtedly, many are wondering what prompted this explanation as nobody in the crowd asked you such a question. With only a scant few seconds of peace, the outrage resumes. The evening is long and difficult, but you stick to your convictions, never giving in to the crowd or swaying from the subject at hand. Confident, or full of yourself, about the conference and the masses ‘understanding nature’, you, the great Niall Retford, retire to your car. Unknowing of the consequences that await you.

Whilst on the road home, you reflect on your answers and the future of your discovery. So involved in your thoughts are you that not once do you notice the car trailing behind, its headlights off. I could warn you, but this is your story, not mine. Not anymore. The car stops on the corner while you pull into your driveway, four houses down from the turn. You step out of your car onto the concrete and turn to face your home. This is quickly turning into my favourite part so far. But I don’t want it to end, not here.

“Behind you, raise your arm.” With a single heel turn, you whip around and catch a blunt object with your forearm. The pain covers your entire arm, stunning you just long enough for a second assailant to grab you from behind, holding you in place. You feel blood trailing down your hands. Try as you might, your house lies between two streetlights, cloaked in darkness. Whoever is assaulting you is hidden from sight. In your panic, you fail to make out the weapon. A classic wooden bat lined with nails. To your credit, not even your own life is enough to offer up your research as a bargaining chip. For a moment, the attacker stares you down without a word. You realize in that instant, that they want nothing from you. Negotiating would be fruitless, as they simply want you dead, no doubt because of what you discovered. And who could blame them? You’ve threatened the lives of children around the world. Their children. And that’s what makes the first swing of the bat all too satisfying.

The man brings the bat up high, your eyes following the silhouette until the last second. In a few hours, you’ll miss this sight. And you’ll wish it were just a little more final. The pain of the blow washes over your head, blinding you with a flash of white-hot light behind your eyes and scattering your thoughts to the wind. The man holding you up releases you, dropping you to the pavement. You don’t feel the concrete hit the side of your face. Amusingly, you’ve managed to stay conscious up until this moment. But no longer. Your world fades to nothing as you forfeit the life of the once-great Doctor Nialls Svara Retford.

Had you simply arrived home and slept, dreams may have taken you. Or maybe nightmares, if you felt the slightest hint of remorse. But you pass the hours laid out on the sidewalk, dreamless, and bloodied. And just as you always have, leaving behind a mess for others to clean up for you.

…

“Wake up.” A flash of lightning tears through your head as you squeeze your eyes shut. The entire night rushes back into focus. The prep meeting, the conference, and the attempt on your life. Your breath quickens, not realizing hours have passed since that memory. You push yourself up with clenched fists, only to slip back to your knees. Below you sits what remains of a pool of blood, slowly trickling into the gutter. Your hand holds tightly to your forehead, bracing against the booming migraine. You feel the grievous wound under your palm, the blood dried all over your forehead and down your face. Through squinted eyes, you can make out the shapes of three people. Two in front, and one behind you. All splayed out on the pavement and lawn, Your vision has not yet cleared, allowing you some minutes of reprieve from your situation. But you will see. Taking a step toward your house, your foot hits something. You kneel, very carefully, and feel with your free hand. A box, a rectangle, a container. Finding the latch, you lift the lid off and are greeted with the cold air escaping its prison. With great caution, you feel around the cooler and count three bags.

“Take it inside.” You put the lid back on and hold the cooler in your free arm, and continue into your house. Your vision returns as you reach the kitchen, the dim blue lights of various devices illuminating the room just enough. Having placed it on the table, you once more peer into the cooler and lift the bags. Even in the dim lighting, you can make out the contents. And why wouldn’t you? It’s been the subject of your research for years now. You drop the bag back in the cooler and turn to sprint outside. Back by the sidewalk, you rush to examine the three shapes. Each of your attackers lay lifeless, their hearts cut out of their chests. Ripped out. A dozen thoughts swim through your mind, lost in a thick miasma of static, mixing together and leading to nothing. Fumbling in your pockets, you produce your car keys and throw open the door. The side of your car is stained with blood, and not even I know whether it’s yours or theirs. With the sun just beginning to rise, you speed off to who-knows-where. Confused, concussed, and terrified. Just like I once was.

“Why are you running, Nialls?”

“What are you so scared of?”

“Turn back. Face the music. Live how we lived.” You ignore the voices, staring but not looking at the road ahead. Sweat drips off of your forehead and coats your hands squeezing tight to the wheel. No matter where you go, your life is over. The world will know you as the researcher who consumed the frozen hearts of children. The media will affectionately call you the Cold-Hearted Killer. And those once closest to you will celebrate your downfall, for you abandoned them long ago. I will do all three, and lead you, guiding you through your new life as a fugitive and murderer. Not out of love, or necessity, but to keep you alive. To keep you thinking of all the horrors you’ve committed to them. To me.

“Take a left, Nialls the ‘Cold-Hearted’.” You listen and take a left. Eventually, we will meet again, face to face. But not now. Not until you’ve learned what suffering truly is.