Her Final Donation

This is a story inspired by Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro.

It’s been six months since I lost him. I still see him sometimes—in my room, on the farm, on the street next to my house, on the plane. His smile is glued to my memories. On the days when I am able to get some sleep, his smile is my only comfort in the sea of darkness. He was the best there ever was. To this day, I still don’t understand how we ended up where we did.

Max had tried to be a companion, but he gave up after his first donor’s timeline was completed. When I saw him for the first time since school about nine months ago, he told me he just couldn’t stand the smell the weaker the donor got. I heard the story about him throwing up at the funeral from an old classmate, Giselle. I believed it. I couldn’t imagine him having to do it all over again.

“It’s like copper and medicine and all of the disgusting smells you can think of,” he avoided my eyes from the hospital bed.

I never told him I chose him when I saw his name on the list. I knew he was ashamed of quitting, so I didn’t want to parade my choices in front of him. We were all born for this anyway, and we have been told since we were kids. It is our duty, and our sacrifice is considered honorable, heroic almost. I never thought about it until I saw the centers for myself. Bodies like mine are manufactured. People no longer have to wait years to get new organs, just a few months at most. All thanks to people like Max and me. It is our only purpose in life.

The keepers always said that it is always a loss to the community when a companion is forced to begin donations. Usually, companions have a common blood type, and there is a surplus of our organs available for the masses, so we get to live longer lives.

Only a handful of common bloods are selected during the school years to be companions. It is a simple criterion: stand out and be kind. These traits are important when you are guiding a donor to their death.

Things with Max happened so fast after he quit companionship that I worried he wouldn’t make it. He told me that it didn’t hurt, that the incision, the anesthesia, the dry mouth, the soreness, and the weakness didn’t affect him at all. He made jokes about the nurses, the doctors, and the size of the miniature tree that decorated every room. I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t shake the sadness from my bones. I thought there was something wrong with me. I had been able to laugh with my previous donors; I could bring them comfort, yet his eyes wouldn’t let me pretend.

Max was always the life of the party, as much as we were allowed to be by the educators, at least. While Em and I were glued to each other, he was everyone’s best friend. I remember the day before the assignments. He had gone around, asking us where we wanted to place, with an old camera he won for writing the best paper on Dorian Gray. I was the only one who dared to say companionship—I liked the idea of living longer. Em said she wanted to be a keeper which was impossible. I don’t remember if Max ever said anything, maybe he did and none of us paid attention to it.

I was the only one in my class who placed outside donations on that first round. When the assignments were finalized towards the end of the year, Max was given the option to become a companion after Mr. Smith fell ill. Max had refused to leave his side and took care of him until he was taken to an outside facility. The keepers said that Mr. Smith saw potential and wanted Max to live a longer life than he would have otherwise as a donor.

I couldn’t celebrate with Max like the others had that day. I had to comfort Em. She wasn’t afraid of the pain; she studied her face instead. I had to reassure her that it would be alright and that they wouldn’t touch her face; they created us for more important things like livers, lungs, hearts, and all organs that could be replaced. That day, we made a pact to wear only long sleeves and long pants so no one could see the scars the keepers ignored at every check-in.

I looked for Max the next day. We sat on a bench as the others played our version of soccer, in which you were allowed to use your hands twice during the game. Everyone, the players and the watchers, had a role in ensuring no one cheated. The game had always been part of our lives, as if we were born knowing it.

“Hey.” I sat down next to him, following his eyes towards Em.

“How is she doing?” Max asked, turning to face me.

We were only sixteen, yet it felt like we knew more than we should. Our lives were so different from those of the people on TV that I almost wondered if we were real. We were so worried for Em. What if they did go for her eyes or her perfect jawline?

I began pinching my fingers as the memories of the night before came creeping back. If there was anything that I wanted at that moment, it was not to talk about her, but Max did, so I went along. I tried to soften my smile, saying, “They offered her a career after she submitted herself and her photos as art.”

He looked at her again, his eyes tracing every corner of her body. I did the same, watching as she formed a fist every time she wanted to use her hands. After a few moments, we turned to each other, and he asked, “What does that mean?”

I shouldn’t talk about her. Only about three people every decade were granted careers if they proved that their art was something that this world needed to see. We all knew she was beautiful; she was the prettiest of all the girls and boys at the Academy, yet it somehow felt unbelievable.

“She will model for a few years until they need her.”

We were happy for her. It meant that, unlike the others, she would get to live for as long as her youth, and we believed that youth lasted forever during those times. We watched the rest of the match silently, waiting for Em to come to us.

…

They demanded his heart in a hurry.

It was an emergency. The person getting his heart couldn’t wait long. So Max was given two months to live however he wanted. As his companion, I made sure he was healthy enough to make the final donation.

Our first stop was a little farm in the countryside. The keepers used to take us there on special occasions. I traded my heels for boots and followed him around for two weeks as he got to explore every inch of the place like a little boy. By the end of the two weeks, we climbed and crashed on top of a hill to watch the sunset.

“Have you heard from Em?” he asked.

I looked into his eyes. They looked like honey under the sun.

“She got an extension on her career last I heard.” I think I should have lied, but the way he looked at me, I couldn’t. I wasn’t fast enough to distract him from the reality that she would outlive him. Max didn’t say anything for the rest of the day. We just walked and walked until we arrived at the motel.

In the dark, while we waited for the morning, he laughed.

I sat up and asked, “What’s funny?”

“I used to tell all the girls that you had my heart. Just a little ironic, isn’t it?”

We almost slept together that night. I don’t know what came over us. It felt good, though. I always imagined what it would be like to be with him.

“I’m sorry,” Max repeated as he got dressed.

I only had my panties on when he crashed on the ground, crying. I rushed to him, forgetting about the protocols and regulations. I held him close to my bare chest and felt his tears on my skin. We fell asleep on the floor.

…

The morning before his final donation, after we had spent the remaining two months traveling, Max asked if he could visit my house. He held my hand as we walked there; we looked like a proper couple.

We were in the house for about five minutes before our bodies began gravitating towards each other. Max was gentle, knowing what to do and guiding me through it. I wrapped my arms around him and cried after we were done. It was pathetic, but he smiled afterward. He said he was happy knowing someone would miss him, yet he wished for me not to. I didn’t let go for another hour.

Walking back, we held hands again. The world felt smaller and smaller the closer we got to the facility. I took him into the room, watched him undress, inspected his body, and tied the robe around his waist. I read out the script and held his hand as his eyes closed.

I watched as his heart less body was wrapped in a white cloth and thrown inside a hole in the ground. Then, I watched the men fill the hole with dirt when the keeper approached me.

“She requested you,” was all he said before tapping my shoulder.

I looked down at my phone; Em’s picture was pretty and elegant. She had a youthful look to her. I imagined she grew tired of all the hollow attention. When I returned home, I think something in me finally broke. The tears were too many to wipe away, and it felt like the hole in his chest made its way into mine. It hurt even more to know that we wasted so much of our youth pretending we didn’t care.

…

Only a few days after losing Max, I drove to Em’s apartment. She was still as beautiful as I remembered. I wasn’t surprised. I knew that she was beautiful, but I always thought that magazines would exaggerate her looks and edit out her imperfections as she aged. But there was nothing about her that needed editing.

“Hey stranger,” she mimicked a line from our favorite movie, Losers in Vegas.

“Long time no see, weirdo,” I retorted, completing the scene.

We didn’t touch for the first two months of donations. Even when she was in pain and couldn’t walk, she would request a nurse instead. I wanted to deny her requests, but there was no point.

Then, one random evening, she asked about Max. I didn’t talk about him with her. It felt wrong now that he was gone. She accepted my silence. When we visited the farm, there was a picture of Max and me on the Bulletin board. She asked again, and I gave a short answer. We walked up the hill and crashed in the same spot that Max and I did.

“Were you in love with him?” Em asked without even looking at me.

“I don’t know,” I was honest this time.

The last time she asked, we were in a river. I was freezing and brushed off her insecurities by pretending I felt nothing for Max.

“I can tell when you lie,” I watched a tear slowly slide down her cheek.

I sighed. Em always made things complicated. Maybe she was right. I hadn't thought about my feelings for Max. With everything going on, I never stopped to think about what I felt for him. Maybe it was just a silly crush, or maybe it was love, but now that he was gone, I didn’t want to talk about it. Not with her, of all people.

I just wanted our time together to be ours.

Back in our room, I used a bobby pin to trace over a single stretch mark on my thigh before taking a shower. I still remember when the keepers found out, I was diagnosed with depression, they said I could do it as long as I took the proper measures to keep it clean. It was a normal thing, the doctor had said, for donors to act this way.

“You still cut yourself?” Em asked under the safety of the darkness.

She knew I didn’t like to talk about it. I didn’t answer her. I just pretended to sleep.

…

No strangers wanted Em’s heart, so I got to keep her longer than I did Max.

“I love you more,” I told her a month before her final donation. I wasn’t sure it was true, but I knew it would comfort her.

“What?” She acted surprised as if I hadn’t confessed I loved her back at the Academy.

That was a strange night. Our baseball coach took us to the farm and gave us unlimited alcohol. Em always pretended like I didn’t confess that night, so I never brought it up again.

It took me a second to gather my thoughts, “I have always loved you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she reached for my hand.

I reached for her hand, meeting her halfway, and said, “I did. I always gave everything I had for you.”

Em kissed me like she wanted to consume me whole. She didn’t need to guide me. I kissed her back like she was my world, and I couldn’t exist without her. We were happy; I would like to think so, for a few months.

For her final donation, they allowed me into the observation room. I was stupid to request it, but I wanted to be by her side until the end.

…

When they asked, I couldn't answer. I’ve known what the program stood for since I was very young. It never bothered me before. It was what we were created for. It was what gave our life purpose. Yet I couldn’t pinpoint where or when I changed my mind. Maybe it was when I saw Max. Or maybe it was Em. I just know that there is nothing after this.

I tried really hard to keep going. I even went as far as retelling myself the stories I grew up hearing. I started with Martin, the astronaut, and his need for a new liver after returning from space. Or Lucinda, the single mother who needed a new heart to raise her lovely daughters. I repeated them, trying to believe in my purpose again. I thought of the teenage Carl, gasping for air as his lungs gave out.

“Miss Johnson?” the keeper tried to get my attention.

He was a new one. I’ve never seen someone so young be a keeper. He looked awkward as if it pained him that I was giving myself up all in one go.

It took me a second to get my eyes to focus on his. “Yes?”

“Do you understand what you are doing?” he asked with the most serious face I had ever seen.

“I do understand.”

He nodded. The program must have thought that I was a waste of time. I didn’t plan on doing it this way, but when Em died, I didn’t see a point in continuing. I thought I would live a long life like all companions do, that I would escape the draining operations and senseless trips around the world. I would stay here, always picking people from the Academy to remind me of home.

It took six months to lose her. Maybe that is why it hurt less. With Max, it was faster. Only three months of donations and he was gone. I wanted to go back and relive every moment I spent with them. It all happened so fast with them that I lost track of what was important: to give them a peaceful goodbye.

The keeper asked me to undress. I folded my long-sleeved white shirt and brown pants before putting them on the ground. Things like this usually didn’t bother me. I was used to being checked out and having my body under supervision. It was the program's way of keeping us healthy after an incident led to a donor dying.

Apparently, at the start of the program, a donor got sick and was left untreated by careless keepers; after that, the program was forced to ensure that donors were always in perfect condition. This included daily baths, weekly body checks, vitamin consumption, and green tea every morning. So, this sort of thing was normal to us.

No one was afraid or even surprised when they entered this room, but I was forced to talk them through as if they were clueless children. I understood with my first donor that calling us that was their way of convincing themselves that they were at least kind to us, unlike the animals that came before us. Since I had seen it all, the cuts, scars, and pain, my body felt uneasy at such a familiar experience. The keeper left me alone as he went to check the computer for my results.

As I waited, I found myself staring at the light. I wondered if the person they matched my organs to would get to live a longer life because of me. It wasn’t my place, but still, it would have been nice to know.

“You are clear for donations,” the keeper barged into the room.

I inhaled and felt the cool air of the room against my naked body. He gave me a piece of paper with a two-month timeline. I was happy. I didn’t know if I could stand it longer than that.

“I don’t think I need to say this, but” he paused, and I saw pity for the first time in his eyes.

“The timeline is a clear schedule of your surgeries and free time. The last date is when your final donation will occur, and you will no longer be with us.”

I looked at the paper I was used to handing out to my donors. The words were familiar yet foreign since they were geared toward me this time.

There was no one to hold my hand. And in the end, it was all painful and dark just like it was for them.