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The Children Money Made
Clogged and diseased, the heart’s valves are cut bluntly with one hard clamp from the surgeon’s scissors, as the anesthesia-filled patient ducks painfully in and out of consciousness. The cold instrument trickles red viscous liquid onto the gloved hands of the surgeon, leaving a warm spot on the clammy surface. For ten seconds the woman is dead, heart not only ceasing to beat, but tossed callously in the tin garbage can by the table; it rests uselessly limp next to an apple core and some shredded documents, staining the paper strips a morbid red in contrast to the apple’s bright waxy fire-engine colored peel. Instantly rushed in and fitted is the perfect version of the woman’s own heart, pumping madly, matching the blood type and size precisely.
The doctor stitches the chest cavity closed, sealing the body as well as the fate of the beating heart, persevering to revive the woman, like the little engine that could persevered to reach his goal. But the story of the train ends with a tear jerking victory of the engine making his way to the top of the mountain. The heart, conversely, will die like its predecessor, taken for granted and abused. Relativity is a thing of marvel, because it somehow makes the death of a heart that would be trapped in a negligent and polluting body a worthy sacrifice when compared to a life of dying woman salvaged, even for a transient amount of time.
On the operating table beside her, lies an ordinary girl, whose death was arranged before her birth. From the day her existence was purchased, she joined the ranks of countless others of her kind who will forever doubt their rights to breathe.
During those ten seconds, the doctor had spared no emotion as the human child was robbed of her life, unconscious and secured to the table, the cords to keep her in place rubbing tiny abrasions into her alabaster skin which had rarely felt the warm, harmful rays from the sun. What an ache she had been spared, she will never develop and suffer cancer, or skin disease. And there she was, at the crucial operation to ensure her transferred heart’s absolute freshness.
Snip, the scissors had metallically resonated in the stucco-covered room, as the heart rate monitor’s noise consumed the OR, buzzing monotonously as it flat lined within instants. It had shut up quickly, mimicking an arcade game shut down when the doctor scoffed and yanked its power cord out of sheer annoyance. For the shortest length of time, there were two dead females in the room, but not a brain around wonders if they are in heaven, or any kind of afterlife. The heart had been reattached carefully and accurately in the blonde-haired woman.
The surgeon’s palms tolerate tinges of pain between the thumb and wrist, cramped from the precision required of his tasking profession.
Blood surges to the fingertips of the woman, and air flows rapidly across her lungs, filling every cell with fresh breaths of clean oxygen. The sharp tingling in her toes is the type that would sting bitingly if dipped in a hot pampering bubble bath, the kind that alerts one of being alive. Her insides would be glowing with happy thankfulness if they possessed the power, radiating enough glow to light the darkest shadows cast in the room.
The brunette man in the corner twirls his fourteen karat gold wedding band on his finger. He had remained quiet until the present, now speaking casually during this occurrence. He asks the doctor patiently, “While she’s under, could you give her the shot to increase her sex drive?”
To his left, his wife with a brand new heart, lays breathing slowly in and out through her nose and recovering. When her life flashed before her eyes for her second-long encounter with the reaper, it started with fifty-one year old memories, when George W. Bush was president and her mother sent her to an expensive private school. It was the school where she and her brother fought to become valedictorian, where she illustrated breathtaking landscapes with thick opaque paint colors in her spare time.
Unfortunately, the woman had been genetically predisposed for having an addictive personality and became a smoker like her uncle Matthew and a binge drinker, like her grandma Mary, two blemishes in her fairytale castle story. Another memory flashed when she had the same little girl beside her only four years ago to donate a kidney as a result of the damage from her drinking problem. The girl was then returned to the Virginia Modified Raising Facility. Six years before that the woman sat down in a doctor’s office and arranged for her perfect clone to be born and raised, for a steal of one point two million dollars. This one purchase would ensure exact matches for organs and blood when necessary; she was buying a piece of mind. A piece of mind born artificially on November 2nd, 2048.
To his right, the ten-year-old girl lies, ripped open and lifeless. If she has seen her life flash before her blue eyes, every memory would be set in a white painted establishment, filled with all the stem-cell baby clones that money made. Nothing to stimulate or educate the brain, simply feeding schedules of vitamins and protein, gyms to keep the body running and fit, and immunizations to ensure total health. Clandestine from the mass of society, her life was a secret no one would pout or manipulate to find out. Her memories would be a decade of repeats that no one would watch because they are all the same as the pilot that aired November 2nd, 2048. Except for today. Today she felt the interior of a government car, smelled the flowers on the outside of a hospital, experienced the rush of the inside of an operating room, and endured the familiar pain of a shot in the neck. But that doesn’t guarantee her ratings will rise.
The little girl’s blonde hair isn’t visible, having been shaved biweekly at her federal institution, but the resemblance between her and her cellular equal is undeniable. She isn’t a wasted life, no; she is the successful example of the Organ Donating Program working. Ask any productive and patriotic member of society.
The husband shook the doctor’s hand with a strong firm grip and asked if it was possible to the suspend the liver and other organs of the ten-year-old girl for future necessities please and the PhD nodded and replied immediately, “Of course.”
Now, like all things the woman had purchased and trashed, her clone would rot at the Decomposing Facility, the eyesore in the community, next to bodies missing livers, lungs, tracheas, stomachs, tongues and even noses used for their cosmetic purposes after injuries. The bodies were to be sterilized and burned on Sunday, like always, when most people were at work.
Washing his hands of the caked on blood, the doctor contemplates how wonderful it is that he chose a profession that can really help people, and save the lives of those in need. The faucet runs quietly as he dries his hands and sprays them for cleanliness. He turns the handle to the off position and whistles out the door, while the water drips slowly down the drain. He always has a hop to his step after heart surgery. He feels a little guilty about scheduling the rest of the day off, but he wants to support his cousin’s anti-abortion rally at city hall, a cause he deemed commendable enough to excuse playing hooky from his job.
Out walks the woman with her heart’s carbon copy sewn in position, strolling to her gas-guzzling automobile, days later. She bounces, hand in hand with her latest husband, feeling every tickling movement through the awakened nerves of her knuckles. Each skip she jumps falls on a beat of her ten-year-old ticker, a musical symphony to her body’s soreness. Her enhanced recovery is just another scientific regularity. The rain is drenching the thirsty dirt and transforming it to mud, sticking to the rubber of their sneakers. The woman looks up at her redheaded husband, who resembles a soaked hound with his hood up and back hunched over. Smiling goofily, she offers, “Let’s get some wine and celebrate.”
Clogged and diseased, the heart’s valves are cut bluntly with one hard clamp from the surgeon’s scissors, as the anesthesia-filled patient ducks painfully in and out of consciousness. The cold instrument trickles red viscous liquid onto the gloved hands of the surgeon, leaving a warm spot on the clammy surface. For ten seconds the woman is dead, heart not only ceasing to beat, but tossed callously in the tin garbage can by the table; it rests uselessly limp next to an apple core and some shredded documents, staining the paper strips a morbid red in contrast to the apple’s bright waxy fire-engine colored peel. Instantly rushed in and fitted is the perfect version of the woman’s own heart, pumping madly, matching the blood type and size precisely.
The doctor stitches the chest cavity closed, sealing the body as well as the fate of the beating heart, persevering to revive the woman, like the little engine that could persevered to reach his goal. But the story of the train ends with a tear jerking victory of the engine making his way to the top of the mountain. The heart, conversely, will die like its predecessor, taken for granted and abused. Relativity is a thing of marvel, because it somehow makes the death of a heart that would be trapped in a negligent and polluting body a worthy sacrifice when compared to a life of dying woman salvaged, even for a transient amount of time.
On the operating table beside her, lies an ordinary girl, whose death was arranged before her birth. From the day her existence was purchased, she joined the ranks of countless others of her kind who will forever doubt their rights to breathe.
During those ten seconds, the doctor had spared no emotion as the human child was robbed of her life, unconscious and secured to the table, the cords to keep her in place rubbing tiny abrasions into her alabaster skin which had rarely felt the warm, harmful rays from the sun. What an ache she had been spared, she will never develop and suffer cancer, or skin disease. And there she was, at the crucial operation to ensure her transferred heart’s absolute freshness.
Snip, the scissors had metallically resonated in the stucco-covered room, as the heart rate monitor’s noise consumed the OR, buzzing monotonously as it flat lined within instants. It had shut up quickly, mimicking an arcade game shut down when the doctor scoffed and yanked its power cord out of sheer annoyance. For the shortest length of time, there were two dead females in the room, but not a brain around wonders if they are in heaven, or any kind of afterlife. The heart had been reattached carefully and accurately in the blonde-haired woman.
The surgeon’s palms tolerate tinges of pain between the thumb and wrist, cramped from the precision required of his tasking profession.
Blood surges to the fingertips of the woman, and air flows rapidly across her lungs, filling every cell with fresh breaths of clean oxygen. The sharp tingling in her toes is the type that would sting bitingly if dipped in a hot pampering bubble bath, the kind that alerts one of being alive. Her insides would be glowing with happy thankfulness if they possessed the power, radiating enough glow to light the darkest shadows cast in the room.
The brunette man in the corner twirls his fourteen karat gold wedding band on his finger. He had remained quiet until the present, now speaking casually during this occurrence. He asks the doctor patiently, “While she’s under, could you give her the shot to increase her sex drive?”
To his left, his wife with a brand new heart, lays breathing slowly in and out through her nose and recovering. When her life flashed before her eyes for her second-long encounter with the reaper, it started with fifty-one year old memories, when George W. Bush was president and her mother sent her to an expensive private school. It was the school where she and her brother fought to become valedictorian, where she illustrated breathtaking landscapes with thick opaque paint colors in her spare time.
Unfortunately, the woman had been genetically predisposed for having an addictive personality and became a smoker like her uncle Matthew and a binge drinker, like her grandma Mary, two blemishes in her fairytale castle story. Another memory flashed when she had the same little girl beside her only four years ago to donate a kidney as a result of the damage from her drinking problem. The girl was then returned to the Virginia Modified Raising Facility. Six years before that the woman sat down in a doctor’s office and arranged for her perfect clone to be born and raised, for a steal of one point two million dollars. This one purchase would ensure exact matches for organs and blood when necessary; she was buying a piece of mind. A piece of mind born artificially on November 2nd, 2048.
To his right, the ten-year-old girl lies, ripped open and lifeless. If she has seen her life flash before her blue eyes, every memory would be set in a white painted establishment, filled with all the stem-cell baby clones that money made. Nothing to stimulate or educate the brain, simply feeding schedules of vitamins and protein, gyms to keep the body running and fit, and immunizations to ensure total health. Clandestine from the mass of society, her life was a secret no one would pout or manipulate to find out. Her memories would be a decade of repeats that no one would watch because they are all the same as the pilot that aired November 2nd, 2048. Except for today. Today she felt the interior of a government car, smelled the flowers on the outside of a hospital, experienced the rush of the inside of an operating room, and endured the familiar pain of a shot in the neck. But that doesn’t guarantee her ratings will rise.
The little girl’s blonde hair isn’t visible, having been shaved biweekly at her federal institution, but the resemblance between her and her cellular equal is undeniable. She isn’t a wasted life, no; she is the successful example of the Organ Donating Program working. Ask any productive and patriotic member of society.
The husband shook the doctor’s hand with a strong firm grip and asked if it was possible to the suspend the liver and other organs of the ten-year-old girl for future necessities please and the PhD nodded and replied immediately, “Of course.”
Now, like all things the woman had purchased and trashed, her clone would rot at the Decomposing Facility, the eyesore in the community, next to bodies missing livers, lungs, tracheas, stomachs, tongues and even noses used for their cosmetic purposes after injuries. The bodies were to be sterilized and burned on Sunday, like always, when most people were at work.
Washing his hands of the caked on blood, the doctor contemplates how wonderful it is that he chose a profession that can really help people, and save the lives of those in need. The faucet runs quietly as he dries his hands and sprays them for cleanliness. He turns the handle to the off position and whistles out the door, while the water drips slowly down the drain. He always has a hop to his step after heart surgery. He feels a little guilty about scheduling the rest of the day off, but he wants to support his cousin’s anti-abortion rally at city hall, a cause he deemed commendable enough to excuse playing hooky from his job.
Out walks the woman with her heart’s carbon copy sewn in position, strolling to her gas-guzzling automobile, days later. She bounces, hand in hand with her latest husband, feeling every tickling movement through the awakened nerves of her knuckles. Each skip she jumps falls on a beat of her ten-year-old ticker, a musical symphony to her body’s soreness. Her enhanced recovery is just another scientific regularity. The rain is drenching the thirsty dirt and transforming it to mud, sticking to the rubber of their sneakers. The woman looks up at her redheaded husband, who resembles a soaked hound with his hood up and back hunched over. Smiling goofily, she offers, “Let’s get some wine and celebrate.”