This is my entry for the weekly prompt: WISHBONE
My phalanges moved from the pinky to the index finger as I tapped the glass table. My mandible rested on my other hand while I wait for my sentence to be read.
The courtroom, six feet below the ground, clanked with the sound of skeletons brushing each other’s bones in a handshake. The gossipers gathered to witness my trial. It was the first time in the history of the Pranky Panicky Cemetery that a skeleton had to be trialed for violating the laws of the non-living.
“Skeletoni Bonina, you are sentenced to five years of settlement in your coffin for having a deal with a human that almost took his life. No Halloween pranks. No glimpse of the world of the living,” the prosecutor in a pair of heart-shaped glasses announced.
“That’s not fair! I didn’t even touch him!” I slammed my bony palms on my table, objecting to the unjust ruling. Not to mention hearing the unpleasant name they gave me. It wasn’t even my real name — but I couldn’t remember what my name was.
“Order in the court!” the judge, who was hired from the cemetery downtown, struck the sound block using his gavel, quieting the clanking of jawbones and some rotten teeth.
“You didn’t touch him, but you tricked him into pulling the other side of the cursed wishbone. Does he know you were trying to steal his soul and planning to take over his body?”
“He wants to go to the land of the dead to visit his mom. I was just trying to help.”
“Trying to help? How? You know that a human’s life expires at the right time. We don’t have the right to intervene with Destiny.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal his life!” I objected. If I could breathe fire, I would’ve roasted the hard skull of the prosecutor.
“What’s been done has been done.”
I shut my mouth. I would only exhaust myself if I kept arguing. It was better if I rest my case.
“Before going back to and being locked in your coffin, you will be given the chance to talk to the boy and apologize to him.”
Two bone guards grabbed my arm, assisting me to stand. They tied my wrists with the dried vines of multijuga.
Oh, the life of a skeleton who no longer had his life.
With heavy steps, I walked with the guards. I was almost dragging my feet to come with them. What was the sense of talking to a boy when I had received my punishment?
My hollow eye holes searched for a familiar human face in the sea of cemetery visitors. Air escaped my nasal cavity, most especially my lung-less rib cage when I saw the boy waving at me.
“Mister Toni!” he called, waving his chubby little hand at me. His round, brown eyes glimmer at the sight of me. The kid didn’t have any idea how grave my sins were in the world of the dead.
I walked towards him with somber eyes, although I know he could only see were just empty eye holes.
He approached me, running as if he was so blissful to see a friend.
“Mr. Toni,” the boy said in a soft voice — a voice that could melt a heart, though I had lost mine seven years ago. I was actually wondering who received my heart when I donated it before I died in an accident when I was thirteen.
The seven-year-old boy rushed to me. He was actually huge and tall for a seven-year-old. He looked as if he was ten.
“What are you doing here?” I asked and knelt in front of him so that I leveled his height. Then I looked away. Seeing his smiling face made me feel sorry for him and myself.
“You have a scar on your right jaw?” I flinched when he touched me. Despite being a bone, I felt sensitive to the touch even though I had forgotten how it felt to be touched.
My scarred jaw.
Yeah, I was known for this scar. But I couldn’t remember where I got it. My brain had rotten away, so I couldn’t really recall my past life.
“Guess what, Mr.? I dreamt of my mother last night. She looked happy, so I decided not to visit her in the world of the dead anymore.” He pulled something out of his pants pocket. It was the longest portion of the wishbone we used, the last we made the deal. “I read that if you keep the longer part of a wishbone, you will be lucky. It can make your wish come true like miracles really exist.”
He looked from the portion of the wishbone, then to me.
“Do you have a wish?” he asked. His innocent eyes screamed curiosity about what my answer would be.
“Well,” I sighed. “I just wish I can remember who I am. And I wish as well that the recipient of my heart is in good health.”
“Here!” he handed the part of the wishbone to me. “Hold on to this and make your wish. I’m giving it back to you.”
“Miracles don’t happen. Luck doesn’t happen, but life does.”
“You’re wrong,” he said with dignity in his inexperienced eyes. He was holding back his tears. “Miracles happen. Because seven years ago, my older brother was diagnosed with congenital heart disease, but a kind man donated his heart to him. And it was you. You died, but saved my brother’s life.”
I was stunned and couldn’t find the words to express my emotions. I knew I was a skeleton incapable of feeling, but I had that weird burst of sensation upon hearing what he said.
“Luck also happens. Because a few days ago, I ran into you, and you insisted on helping me visit my mom in the world of the non-living. Isn’t that a rare luck to meet you twice in my lifetime?”
The boy hugged me while saying,
“I know your name is Artemio because of your scar. You were on the other bed next to my brother’s bed when he was rushed to the hospital. I heard when you said you want to donate your heart to anyone who might need it.”
If I could still cry, I probably would’ve burst into tears. I hugged the boy back; it was the least I could do.
After our conversation, I'll start serving my sentence. But I'll serve with a proud ego, knowing that my wish came true.
