Mr. Heinz

A Story by Rainy Day

Based off Edgar Allen Poe's oval writing but takes a whole new twist.

Heinz Blome.docx

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Katelynne McBride

Schuberth’s 5th hour

Sat, February 2nd, 2019

Mr. Heinz

The old man’s blue optic’s gazed unto the ceiling in which was beginning to decay into a burnt sienna tincture. He lay on his Victorian Carved Oak bed, concerning over the doctor’s medical calculations, in what regarded his life span. Not a second had passed the aged Hamlin Grandfather Clock when he was not thinking of the time he had to spare on this merciless blue orb. While many thoughts had wiggled into his sickly mind, only one conviction stood out like a palm tree in the arctic: he was on his deathbed with the same cancer his aunt had expired with at the age of six.

Provided that he was an eighty-five-year-old man, and his aunt was only six, he had made it far in the sharp claws of the world. As he lay there, leisurely dwindling away, he contemplated the irony of this very situation; which would often only happen in fiction tales. A small yet forced chuckle escaped from his soar trachea and fell downward from his chapped lips, into utter silence, as if it were never an occurrence. The dead silence of the boxed room was like that of a funeral, or an awkward pause in a conversation, potentially the silence one hears in death.

Under those circumstances, he sat himself up, throwing his tired pale legs over the side of the oak bed. Not one, but two groans followed up with what some may consider a simple task. As he stood up, balancing upon the pecan flooring which resided beneath his wrinkled trotters. The elderly mortal reached for his hickory cane which was resting up against his Edwardian Period Chest. Upon the chest laid a bronze plate, specifically crafted to hold white waxy taper; the only source of light that dimmed his chamber.

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In the light of his ability to stand, the senior tucked away silver coins of liberty into the deep pockets of his black Edwardian pants. Heinz hobbled outside the front door, the clouds in the sky were as grey as a cobblestone wall and the air felt thick like maple syrup straight from the tap. Although, the air had a fresh scent, like the pheromone that arises from a newly torn piece of lettuce, or a pine forest after it rained.

With the welcome of the day, a soft yet relived sigh dripped from his lip and into the open world, like a dandelion blown into the wind. Heinz made his way to the bus-stop where he was transported to the World War II museum; a place he often visited to remember his bloodline. Only this time, this moment, this feeling, would be the last. His aunt, whose name shan't be uttered, had a portrait of herself in this very museum.

Henceforth, Heinz got off the old porcelain stained bus and walked into the museum, coming upon the portrait of the girl. The rectangle painting manifested a peach colored girl, roughly at the age of six, with blond hair tied back into two pigtails. The female was sitting on a khaki colored bench, upon one of her angled arms was a white dove. To her left was a second white dove, and to her right a dark green pigeon. The girl was wearing a white dress, tied together by two green bows at the shoulder. Laying on her lap was a corresponding sun hat with red daisy’s sewn atop. The background was that of a vegetated forest, with towering grand firs. The outline of the painting had a vintage effect, but in all had a green tint. Though the painting itself was beautiful in all its glory, the story behind it was quite on the contrary.

“My name has long been forgotten, though my story survives the ash of fires. Kurt Blome, whom was my uncle, learnt that his niece had cancer. It happened to be at the same time he was ordered to experiment with plague vaccines on concentration camp prisoners. Along with his experiments, my uncle worked alongside cancer scientists to help find a cure for his beloved niece, but I died at the age of six. The

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cancer was said to have first taken place when I was three, but grew to rapidly around my lungs, eventually causing them to collapse. What you do not know is, he had made a cure for my cancer, he sent the news in letter form. Unfortunately, he didn’t return in time to heal my already severe wounds. Kurt tried to save me even after days of my death, but the impossibility discouraged him.

On the contrary, my uncle has saved many lives with his findings, and for that we thank him. I loved my uncle, and I loved my short life. It was full of excitement and never-ending drama. In the six years I lived, I learnt that family is the strongest form of love out there. I learnt that even at your worst, your closest loved ones will fight for your life, even if you’ve already passed. I thank the heavens for keeping my memory alive to this day, and I look forward to seeing my mother once more.”

The old man’s blue optics swelled with glassy drops of water, his face turning red and eyes puffy like a cotton ball. He kissed his fingers and gently set them unto the painting. His heart began to fade into a beat of silence, his fragile body slowly lowering to the ground while small, short, gasps of air struggled to fill his lungs. He could only put a smile on his face, he was about to meet the legend of his life. All he could hear now was the dead silence of the boxed room; like that of a funeral, or an awkward pause in a conversation, potentially the silence one hears in death.