15 Ways To Fix A Broken Heart

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  • Published: 12 Mar 2013
  • Updated: 10 Apr 2013
  • Status: Complete
I was, and still are, weird. Yes, my friends are the craziest people you'll ever meet. And yes, I was proud of that small insignificat fact. I thought he was too. But he wasn't, his type never are. I was played with and then made to be broken. Then I found it, The Book. It healed me, this simple book with 15 ways to fix a broken heart.
Copyright (C)
*For the World Book Day App Competition*


8. If You Really Want to Know

"I'm fine," Trent says exasperatedly as he leans on my shoulder. Not only did I break his arm, I may have also sprained his ankle. I'm like a wrecking ball with feet.

"No, you're not," I say as we inch closer to his house. Trent's tall, I reach his shoulder, and having a giant resting on your shoulder is not comfortable, but then again I broke his arm so I guess we're even.

"My house is-"

"Yeah, third to the left from mine," I say, "I remembered."

"Oh," is all he says. I smirk, I remember some things.

"Wipe than smirk off your face, it's not like it was hard to remember," he snaps. I grit my teeth and wonder for the millionth time why I ever left my friends to walk this cad home.

"I could leave you here," I threaten, "By yourself, in the dark."

"I'm not afraid of the dark Levi, and you don't have the guts to do it."

He's right, I don't. I stay silent and he just laughs. I pinch his sprained arm in a moment of extreme violence. His face is twists in pain and although I feel mostly regret, I can't help but feel happy that I have some control over him.

"What the hell was that about?" he asks, pinching my arm back. I don't feel the pain and just laugh.

"That's what you get for being a jerk."

"You're back at jerk? What happened to 'cad'?" He fake pouts. I practically have to drag him up the front steps of his house and wrestle with his pocket to get his keys. Once we're inside I dump him on the sofa. He groans in pain and now, at this precise moment, I feel terrible for what I did.

"I'm sorry," whisper after a moment. His arm's beginning to swell. I walk into the small kitchen and grab an ice pack  from the freezer. It's mostly filled with frozen pizzas, I laugh to myself, what a typical guy.

"You know you can't live on frozen pizza, right?" I ask as I throw the ice pack to Trent. He catches it with expert hands and sets it on his arm. He grimances in pain and I start to feel bad again.

"Sorry about your arm," I mumble. Trent smiles.

"An apology? Wow, you must be feeling generous," he says sarcastically. I roll my eyes and take a seat on his frayed, red sofa. A picture frame is set down, I lift it up off the side table and see a picture of a smiling young woman with honey coloured hair. A small dart of jealousy enters my insides, a tiny dart. I feel Trent's eyes on me and show him the picture.

"Who's this?" I ask. I can't keep the venom from my voice. It's simply illogical to picture Trent teasing anybody but me (stupid, I know) but simply illogical. Trent's eyes are cast down, staring at the happy girl in the picture. I breathe a sigh of relief, he didn't notice my moment of jealousy.

"Her name's Janice. She's my mom," he says with his eyes still cast down. A grin appears on my face at hearing that she's just his mother. I check myself for a second and wipe the grin off, puzzeled at myself.

"What time's she coming home from work?" I ask, hands under my chin. Trent looks up, a cynical smile on his face.

"She's not coming home," he explains, "she's dead."

I wish I could just tape my mouth shut and tie my hands around by back, that way I could stop hurting everyone. How in the world could I be so tactless? I shuffle my feet a little under the couch to avoid looking into Trent's eyes.

"I'm sorry," I mumble for the millionth time. He lets out a mirthless laugh.

"Yeah, well, you couldn't have known," he says angrily. I look up hopefully, I'm almost postitve that I didn't hurt his feelings.

Until I see his eyes. His black eyes, devoid of everything but anger. And those eyes are trailed on me.

That's when the falling feeling starts. I'm scared for some reason, I shouldn't be though, it's only Trent. But I am scared either way. I sit still, my back erect, my heart frozen in perfect fear. His eyes are alight still and he's clenching and unclenching his fists. Some animal instinct tells me to run, to run away before he does something dangerous. But I stay still, I even grasp his cold fist to stop him  from clenching them.

I know I'm going to regret this somehow. I just know it.

"Trent, are you okay?"

He explodes.

"Goddamn it Levi, nothing is okay!" Clench, unclench. "I killed my mother. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her." He gets up, shrugs off my hand and paces the room. His jaw is clenched and he's running his hand through his hair furiously. Maybe I should've ran.

"What are you talking about?" I ask getting up also. He grabs me by the shoulders, his rough, calloused fingers digging into my shoulders. His eyes are something to marvel at, I can actually see the fire in them, and I stand there. Trent's breaths stir my hair and I keep my silence. This just seems to anger him more.

"Mother's shouldn't leave their kids, Levi! Mothers shouldn't leave their kids but my mom did! She ran from me, she thought I was a monster! And I killed her!" he shouts every word into my face as if it were built up in him over time. His hands travel down until they meet my hands. I try to back away now, slowly, but he holds me still. His fingers are delicate at first, goose bumps line my skin where his fingers were, but they turn angry. His knuckles turn white - like all there's left is bone. 

"What are you thinking about?" I ask, still grasping his hand. He doesn't meet my eyes. 

"I can't do this," he says, dropping my hands. "Not to you. I can't do this to you."

Do what? Everything was mixed up and jumbled in my head, like a jigsaw puzzle in a box that's been shaken. I feel sucker-punched - all the air gone. 

"When are you ever going to tell me anything?" I ask, my turn to be angry. "When are you going to stop being a puzzle and be an actual person?"

"You don't get it," he pleaded, but I was already half-way to the door. 

"Then make me understand," I say. My hand falls on the door knob. His arms are open, his eyes are full of emptiness and they are looking at me, begging me to get it. 

It was then when I walked out. 


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