You'd think he would get used to it after a while. Having no heart, that is. And of course, having no lungs was strange, too. Non-breathing. That was what it was. The ability to exist without oxygen. A scientific oddity.

Well, the ability to exist with a gaping hole in his chest was probably a scientific oddity, too, he supposed. He snickered silently, maniacally.

Ahem. Not funny, that.

And no stomach. He could remember food. He could still smell it, and those scents brought back rushes of memory every time. Almost as good as the real thing. Almost, but not quite. Who'd have thought he would miss British hamburgers?

At least all the important bits still existed. And were in fine working condition, if he did say so himself. Which he did. Since no one else could attest to the fact.

That strange giggling was welling up again. He pushed it back down, buried it. He didn't want to lose it.

That's better. Don't want to lose it.

His heart was gone. That was really strange. Here he was, with an ache where it should be and no heart to speak of. But it still hurt. Perhaps it was like when soldiers lose a leg in combat, and they can still feel the pain, even after the appendage is gone. What was it called? Sympathetic pain? Maybe.

Here comes that laughter again. Hold it in.

A bloody miracle of nature he was. How could he still be functioning with no heart to pump blood through his veins? How come his brain wasn't dead, his fingers and toes fallen off? He could imagine what doctors would say in the face of someone like him.

Something like him.

Oh well. He didn't have blood anymore, that he knew of. He liked to sit in his room in the basement and make slashes along his wrist. Just to watch the non-blood. The cut was there, but he didn't bleed. He could pull apart the edges of skin and peer into his wound. Once, he had made the cut so deep it had gone to the bone. He had pried the skin aside, and peered at the white bone, not marred with blood.

Because of course, without a heart, one couldn't bleed.

Tonight, he took the knife and jammed it through his palm. All the way into the table he shoved it. Of course there was pain. A lot of pain, definitely. But it was the good kind of pain, the kind that told him, whatever else he lacked, he still could feel. That he still had a person inside his blazing chest.

But... he didn't bleed.

Non-blood, non-blood, welling up, bubbling forth. He could see it in his mind, gushing like it should be from where the knife was stabbed through his palm. It was non-red, non-sticky, and that funny non-coppery smell that always accompanied it.

The giggles came again, and this time, Jono laughed. But as always, the laughter was only in his head.