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Shorts
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| a broken heart | |
| By tabithapa18643 | ||
| 25 July 2006 | ||
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This is probably very bad writing, but it was slightly therapeutic. I had never died before. When you said you didn’t love me and never would I felt myself curl up inside and fade into nothingness. You said you had made up your mind that you wouldn’t love me, you wouldn’t even try, and this decision had been made at the very beginning. I never had a chance. I never had a fair shot. You couldn’t turn it on and off, you said. What did I want from you? I wanted to love you. I wanted the opportunity to make you happy. You said you didn’t love me because you looked at people differently when you loved them. You liked everything about them, the way their nostrils moved when they slept, the way the sweat lay on their skin, the way they breathed. You didn’t look at me differently. There was no passion. You never thought about how you would feel inside of me, you never imagined children. This is love, you said, and you didn’t have it for me. I thought about how you would feel inside me every day. I named our daughter. Your middle name, a beautiful name for our dark haired fantasy daughter. Our son would be named after you. When I looked at you there was a glow. The quirk of your eyes, that stupid grin, your bad haircut, it all glowed. I loved it all even though I would have hated these things if they were characteristics of anyone but you. Everything about you had this glow; there was a halo around your actions, around your mannerisms, around your appearance. I loved things about you that I hated about other people. I loved those stupid faces you made, the goofy way you told stories, the intensity you had about things that meant nothing. I knew people with those same characteristics and they bothered me. This is love you said. I couldn’t tell you this. You asked me what I wanted from you. You said you didn’t love me and you never could. I was sorry. I wanted to weep and beg and explain how sorry I was. Months of frustration had climaxed and I spoke in anger. I was fed up, I was discouraged, my love went unreciprocated and we were still on the fence. I spoke and you listened and you believed at face value. You would never forgive me. You wrote me off, you said. That was it. When I said I was fed up, you took that to mean it was over. You didn’t think you’d see me again for a while. That is not what I meant. I meant I was angry. I meant I was hurt. I wanted you to understand and instead you closed the door so firmly that I knew I could never get back in. The walls you put up were made of steal. They had always been there, from the moment I met you, but now they were permanent. And you wouldn’t believe I was sorry, you wouldn’t believe I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to leave yet. I swallowed the pain and the tears and I put on my clinical voice and I talked to you as if we were just friends. And we talked until the sun came up and you seemed okay and all the while the black void inside of me grew. But I couldn’t go away from you. I wanted your presence so badly. I wanted the hope back. For months, you rejected me, but I still had hope. Now, there was no hope at all. It was over and everything inside of me I cherished died. Being on the fence was better. I could live with hope. It hurt and it was frustrating but at least I was still alive. The death of hope was the death of me. I wanted to make you happy. I had plans. I knew my profession was very lucrative. I could support us. I would build you a garage and a gunroom and you could tinker and build and load and sell ammunition. You could go back to school. I wanted to give you children and a future and happiness. But I wasn’t for you, you said. Any man would be lucky, you said. But not you. Not you. I left and I contained myself. The minute the door to the truck was closed though my self-control loosened. I wept while driving, not caring if I hit something, not caring what damage was done to myself. The front door to the house was locked. The porch window was high but I climbed up onto a table and went through the unlocked window and went to bed. I cried myself to sleep. It wasn’t the first time I cried myself to sleep over you. It wouldn’t be the last. I woke up; I went to work. I was wrapped in this blanket and everything I touched was far away, voices sounded like they came from yards beyond. I was far away, I was on the outside looking in on my life as it went on. Nothing was real. I did my job and in the moments when I wasn’t busy thoughts of you crowded me and I went in the corner to cry where no one could see me. Everyone in the store knew that I was a very a private person. They knew better than to ask. They were extra nice, they were softer spoken, but they were mature enough in the ways of the world to know that fawning and cooing would make it worse. Pity would break the damn of emotion and I would drown. Silent tears went down my face and I kept a tissue in my pocket. I smiled for people and I was as nice as always if not a little subdued. I had fantasies of never returning home. I wondered how much a one-way ticket to Europe would be. I wondered if I could go. I would drive to Philly and get on a plane and live in squalor for a year. School could wait, I was young. It wouldn’t be hard. The void inside me grew until I was nothing but a shell with a black hole inside it. The sucking in my chest made me want to double over and gasp for air. I couldn’t breathe. I tried but the breaths wouldn’t come. The lump in my throat grew so big I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t talk. You didn’t love me and you never could. You couldn’t picture me as the woman for you. You wanted a mate. So did I. I am not a casual person. I did not date casually, I did not dress or act or think in a casual manner. I was looking for a mate. I wanted to find a man to give children to. I thought you could be that man. But no, you had decided from the very beginning that you weren’t going to love me. You said no. Once you made up your mind, you said, that was it. You wouldn’t change it. Memories drowned me. Your hand, your cheek, your lips. I wanted it, I wanted you. I thought you could be the one I could make love to. I wanted to loose my virginity to you. I wanted you to be the one to see that part of me, to be inside me. But you said there was no passion. How could there be, I thought, when you shut me down so completely I didn’t know how to be sexual around you. You shut me down so many times that I started shutting myself down automatically. I didn’t act in a sensual manner around you because you had trained me not to. And then you say there’s no passion. The void grew and I died. And I had never died before. I didn’t know what it was to be devastated by another human being. Now I know. And I wonder if I can love again. I wonder if I will ever stop being in love with you. I wonder if you will ever forgive me. I wonder why you can’t hear “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry. I am. I wonder if I will ever feel human again. I wonder if I will ever feel anything but this ache. I don’t want to love anyone but you. I wanted to love you. But you decided. You decided. And my love goes unrequited.
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