His heart was in his hands. Sam looked at it, too numb for revulsion, or shock, or horror, or any other appropriate reaction. It was in fragments, that heart in his hands, that heart that was his, and as it pulsed, slower and slower, he distantly wondered at it. How had he never seen how fragile it was? Its chambers were thinly muscled, veins running like scars through its crimson tissue. Gashes were open in its side, and the protruding arteries had been torn out along ragged edges that flapped in time with the shaking rhythm of his hands. Blood was dripping through them; it had oozed into the crevices between his fingers. The stain felt permanent. Sam gazed down at his bleeding heart as if gazing up into the heavens at a cold, remote star. Maybe there was truth to the stories, maybe science was wrong. Maybe passion, emotion, that feeling of life which had thrummed through his veins- which he, damn him, hadn’t taken the time to notice- really was stored in the heart. His life had been reduced to the pulsing mass in his hands, and Sam didn’t know how to put those splinters back into himself and escape even close to whole.
Maybe that wasn’t the point, though. Maybe seeing your heart in your hands couldn’t be recovered from. Maybe- maybe it just stayed that way. Separate. Distant. Changed.