The Anatomy of the Human Heart

i. aorta

A/N- This story may be deleted depending on how popular it gets in comparison to my other story, A Complicated Compilation of Colossal Collisions. I won't be writing both stories simultaneously on here. You've been warned. If you'd like to prevent this from happening, share this story with your friends!

Additionally, this story contains many references to the subject of Biology and all that it entails. In other words, it may not be a textbook, but you're going to learn a few things about bio because that's what Ava's life (and this story) revolves around.

Also, another thing you should note is that the writing style for this story is very wordy; this is intentional. It may be written in third person, but the diction and syntax is reflective of Ava's thought processing regardless; it echoes her mind and the way she thinks and sees things. Don't tell me to change it. This is Ava, and I won't.

Other than that I hope you like it! :)

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Ava Fischer stared down at the shadowy pit of her empty mug of coffee and hopelessly wished that she could be anywhere else on the planet.

Mind you, Ava Fischer was not the type to yearn for anything so completely and utterly impossible. She most certainly was not what angst-ridden sixteen-year-old female bloggers would call “a dreamer”, for to dream would require one to transcend the bounds of reality and enter a world that could not possibly exist— a world that could be of no use to anyone because of its fictive nature. Indeed, wishful thinking was a vain, fruitless habit that Ava made every effort to keep from partaking in, a feat she typically carried out by rooting her thoughts and ambitions to the real world and subjugating her wild “dreams” with the loud objections made by the voices of Fact and Reason.

As she took in the telltale smears of brown staining the white glass on the inner diametric wall of her I LOVE NY mug, she concluded that a negative correlation existed between the amount of liquid in the heat-resistant container and her level of impracticability. As one decreased, the other increased.

But perhaps she owed her unlikely mental avidity to something other than the fact that there was not two dollars’ worth of a hot, bitter beverage swimming in her pearly porcelain potion. Perhaps the true culprit to blame for this bout of madness was an actual living and breathing being.

Ava expelled a heavy, drawn-out sigh and mustered up the willpower to look even mildly interested on what the young man sitting across the intimately small restaurant table was attempting to discuss with her. Then again, perhaps the word “discuss” would not have been the best choice of words to use in this context—after all, such a word implied a sense of communication between two parties that were in the midst of debating a single subject. And the man before Ava Fischer was spewing out strings of words with unmeasured incessancy, hardly stealing a second to inhale for air before diving back into his eternal dialogue once more, wide eyes and animated gesticulations included.

“And so I had to reach my hand over the copy machine—“ He then proceeded to stretch his broad arm out in a physical display of his spoken actions. “—and I strained until I nearly dislocated my arm from its socket—“

“Your shoulder,” Ava couldn’t help but cut in, more out of the impulse to correct falsified information than anything else. It was the first time she had spoken all evening, other than to ask the waitress for a refill.

Peter—at least, that was what Ava believed he had referred to himself as somewhere in the midst of one of his extensive monologues—knitted his bushy eyebrows and frowned in bewilderment.