15 Ways To Fix A Broken Heart

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  • Published: 12 Mar 2013
  • Updated: 10 Apr 2013
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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*

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6. Transparent

I hate pop-up ads.

Right now I'm trying to listen to The Downtown Aviators on Youtube but a blasted ad is preventing me from doing so. I carefully close the ad, not wanting to accidentally click on it and buy their product. The music blasts but I suddenly regret choosing this band.

And I don't know why you're making me feel this way...

Their songs sound cheesy and remind me way too much of lovesick puppies.

And that's why I've got to say, I love you

Yeah, I hate them now. Almost as much as pop-up ads. I close out of Youtube with anguish and curse the music industry for making sixteen year old girls like me feel bad for not having a love that is so amazingly awesome that someone needs to sing about it. I flop down onto my bed and open The Book, remembering that the author wrote something about songs in there. I flip to the right page and start reading.

Music

Next to every song you hear on the radio are love songs and I, personally, am disappointed. I'm not saying that every song you hear is a bursting cheeseball describing a fake romance, I'm just saying that the ones that are, are rubbish. Music is a way to express the way you feel, what you think, what you believe. Yeah, you can write love songs once in a while but artists shouldn't let that control their career. They'll have much more of a chance to broaden their fan bases by writing songs everyone can relate to. When you're hurting from something, wether it be from a romance gone bad or having a family situation then the last thing you want to hear are cheesy love songs or songs that say 'I love you' a billion times.

There are a list of songs I love, some about love while others are not. They're different, and not exactly the most popular songs out there but they're great. If anyone's reading this than I highly suggest you take a listen.

I agree a lot to what The Book said. The last thing I need to hear is someone saying 'I love you' a thousand times before the chorus comes around. I flip the page to check out the list of songs they suggest:

Loser of The Year- Simple Plan

For The Love of a Daughter-Demi Lovato

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room-John Mayer

If I Die Young-The Band Perry

Drunk-Ed Sheeran

The Demi Lovato song stuck out for me. It's about a father who seems to abuse his family and the person affected is begging the father to stop but he doesn't seem to listen. I can relate to that in a way. My own dad is moody and frequently irritated these days. He hasn't laid a finger on either of us which is a good sign but I honestly wouldn't put it past him. He just seems so stressed lately.

I glance at the clock, four thirty, it reads. I hop off my bed to get ready for the art gallery. I'm going to prove Trent wrong

*

"So did you ask him yet?" I ask Sia on the phone. I shift through the clothes in my closet, it's an endless sea of black.

"I'm still trying to pluck up the courage," she admits. I readjust the phone to wedge it between my ear and shoulder as I try to put on my jeans.

"Well you still have to ask him, Rick asked Sylvie. You owe him," I say and wiggle on my loose white button-up.

"You think I don't know that?" she asks infuriated.

"Calm yourself Sia, goodness," I say and brush out my short hair.

"Sorry, I'm just stressed about Chris-"

Woah. Again, woah.

"Wait, did you say Chris?" I ask, shocked.

"What? No," she tries back peddling.

"You like Chris? Good Lord Sia, our Chris?" I ask, momentarily stupified. He was cute, but like a puppy you want to hug instead of date.

"Yes, fine. It's Chris," she sighs.

"Ha, I finally figured it out!" I say and do a little dance.

"Get over yourself. We all know that you like Trent," scoffs. I laugh.

"Bah, he's not for me," I say with utmost certainity.

"Yeah? Then why're you going to the art museum with him?" she asks.

"To prove him wrong, he says writing isn't a real art. If I hate everything they show me he has to admit that I'm right about everything," I explain. I can picture it now, Trent saying he was wrong and that I'm right. Hopefully it'll wipe that stupid grin off his face.

"Romantic," she says. The sarcasm in her voice is palpible.

"Told you-" I start to say but she cuts me off.

"Guess who I just saw across the street?" she asks with vemon in her voice.

"Who?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

"Lewis and Maria," she answers. Oh goodness gracious, I should've seen this coming. I forgot that Sia lived across the street from Lewis. I used to be so envious of her having The Lewis McLanster live across from her. But now I realize that if I lived across from him the horror would literally be right outside my door.

"I don't want to hear," I say, tears spiking my eyes.

"Fine, just be careful. The art museum is down on Main Street right?"

"Yeah," I say, dread filling my chest.

"Well, that's where they're headed. The might not be going there for sure though," she says.

"Whatever, thanks anyway. I gotta go. Bye," I say and click my phone off. I put on black flats instead of my usual Converse or boots. Damn Lewis, was he telling Maria that he loves her? That his heart wouldn't beat if she wasn't there? Is she believing it all? Is she melting against his kiss? I know I did, I hate how I did. But I know  that if Lewis kissed me again, I wouldn't be able to resist.

I hurry out the door and make my way down to Main Street, desperately hoping that I don't bump into Lewis and Maria while I'm there.

*

"Dressed up as usual I see," says Trent from behind me. I grip the ticket in my hand and pick at my blouse. I feel highly scrutinized as Trent looks over me, his black eyes picking up on something I can't name. He shoots me a gorgeous smile and I scowl back in return.

"I don't want to hear any remarks today," I say tiredly. We walk up to the white marble steps of the huge museum, the cold marble making my feet cold.

"No remarks today? What about snippy comebacks, or are those off limits too?" he asks. I shoot him a glare.

"Those too," I say.

"No calling me jerk today either? Shame," he jokes, "I quite liked the sound of our names. The Jerk and the Freak, it fits." We pass through the heavy oak doors that are carved to perfection by expert craftsmen. I run my hand over them quickly, fleetingly before I rejoin Trent.

The architecture of the building is a something to marvel at. I was only here once, on the shoulders of my father when I was six. A lot has changed since then. The first room is wide and long with a cieling slanting to the right. Modern. A glass wall is on the far side of the white room. Sunlight shifts through it, casting pretty patterns on the paintings hanging across from it. Brown wood benches are situated in the middle of the room where lovers and friends alike sit to feast their eyes onto the art they paid to see.

And right there, standing like an angel is Trent. Wisps of honey coloured hair falling in front of his forehead, black eyes that can turn from tender to murderous in a second. Cheekbones that sculptors would die to sculp, lips that spill insults as easily as if it's breathing and compliments that can come as smoothly as currents in a river. Absolutely breathtaking. It takes several long moments for me to realize that I'm staring.

"Enjoy the view, Freak," he laughs. Then I realize that he's no angel, he might as well be a devil. His hand guides my back to the first piece of art. I swallow my pride and go along with it.The first piece is a landscape one, all trees and grass and everything peaceful.

"What'd ya think freak?" Trent asks, examining it carefully. I take on sweeping look at it, it's not unique. It's beautifully crafted but not original. I tell Trent so.

"Coming from Miss Originality herself," he scoffs. I have nothing to say to that so I keep quiet. That drives him more.

"How 'bout this one?" he asks pointing to a painting of irises.

"What's it called?" I ask.

"'Irises'," he answers. Figures, I think. It's a pretty thing painted by Van Gogh. That guy was obsessed with flowers. It was nice I guess, but it's not my thing.

"Next," I mutter, walking over to a nearby painting.

"You're a tough one to please, Freak," Trent complains.

"Then we are alike because you are too," I say back.

"Told you we were alike," he smiles. I roll my eyes. The next painting is of a parrot eating an apple. We both laugh at that one. We walk into a smaller room filled with sculptures. It's very nearly empty and we talk more freely.

"Trent! Stop running, you're going to break something!" I warn as the last person leaves and we're suddenly alone. Trent sprints from one sculpture to another, practically asking for one to shatter, while I wait by the doorframe. I want to avoid the sculptures, I'm horribly accident prone.

"Ease up Freak. No one's here," he says and grabs my hand, dragging me along with him. "Live a little."

"Runing around breaking things isn't living," I say and swipe my hand away. I step over to examine a sculpture of an Egpytian god while Trent resumes running around.

Cue the earth-shattering crash.

I just toppled over the cat-like Egpytian god sculpture. I am so dead. I rush to the ground to try to pick up the pieces in a futile attempt to put it back  together.

"Freak! What'd you do?" Trent says.

"I don't know! It just fell over!" I scream. Trent stands there laughing as if my misery is amusing. He's going to make me beg for help. He finally sombers up.

"You know what freak? I like you, and so I will help. You got to trust me. Do you trust me?" he asks. I hesitate, do I trust him? What if he tells security?

"I'm waiting freak." I have no choice.

"Fine. I trust you," I choke out.

"Good. Grab my hand," he commands. I obey.

"What now?" I ask as we're still holding hands.

"We run!" he yells battle cry style. We breeze out of the room, leaving the jumbled mess of the sculpture on the floor. A slight wind twines itself into my hair as we run into the main room. Several adults stare at us and some security too. We make it to the front desk, the receptionist staring daggers at us.

"Thanks for the art. It's been amazing," Trent shouts as he drags me out from the museum. But not before I catch sight of a different painting. One of a blind man singing with his dog. His black shades reflect the sunshine and even though his guitar case is next to empty, he looks so happy. So unmistakably happy there singing with his dog.

"Levi, let's go," urges Trent. He tugs on my arm and I let myself get dragged out into the clear.

*

"I can't believe you sometimes," says Trent.

"What?" I ask distractedly. Mom is going to kill me if she knew what I just did. Those sculptures cost more than my life, if mom pays for it we'll surely be on the streets for it. And it'd all be my fault.

"I'm simply stating my disbelievingness of you," he says with bravado.

"That's not a word," I say about 'disbelievingness.'

"Well it should be because that's how I feel about you right now," he says.

"You have feelings? Proclaim it to the world! Trent has feelings!" I say with sarcasm. It's fairly bright outside, the sun still hasn't surrendered to the moon yet. I twirl around, the sweet, giddy taste of relief from our daring escape is still coursing through me although fear of being found out threatens to relinquish its hold on me. Taunting Trent adds to the giddy feeling and I decide that I like Trent. I certainly don't love him like Sia implied, but I like him. Making fun of him at least.

"Yes, I have feelings. And 'disbelievingness' is nothing to brag about," he grumbles, catching hold of me before my twirling causes me to fall. I like the way he holds me too, especially while he taunts me back. I pause for a second, what a weird thought.

"Define 'disbelievingness' for me," I say while I wiggle out of his grip. His strong arms feel constricting all of the sudden and I feel like twirling.

"When you simply can't believe someone," he say simply. We continue walking through the street until we meet our neighborhood. Funny thing, our neighborhood is. There are few sidewalks, only the ones that lead to school so you have to walk on the road for the majority of it. I stick to the curb. When I stand on it I meet Trent's height.

"And why can you not believe me?" I ask.

"What I don't believe about you is the fact that you went after Lewis." I can't help but notice the way he said 'Lewis'. It's as if his name was a terrible poison you need to spit out quickly.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that it was obvious from the start that he wasn't after you. Not the Levi I know." I flush at that.

"Are you saying that I'm so unattractive that no one would be after the real me?" I ask disgustedly.

"I'm not saying that, I'm just saying how could the real you accept the real him," he says with his angry eyes on me. His irises are alight with fire that I haven't seen before. It frightens me a little.

"So it's all my fault?" I ask getting angry.

"I'm not saying it's all your fault you got hurt, I'm just saying that a lot of it was," he casually lets out. I know that, I want to scream in his face. The fading sun shines from behind his face and he's just so blindingly bright, just for a moment, that I need to face away. His callused hands (hands of an artist, no doubt) pull my face to see his and I want to die right then and there, all for the expression he's wearing.

"I just can't stand the fact that you accepted him when he didn't even try to accept you," he whispers, his hate for Lewis plain in his black eyes.

"Why do you care so much?" I ask, his hate catching me off guard. He howls out a mirthless laugh.

"I don't know Levi. I guess that I shouldn't. Maybe I should get back to poking fun at you," he says. I see my humble abode peak out from around corner

"I didn't say you should tease me," I mumble, "not that you'll listen."

"You're right. I'm not going to listen to you," he scoffs,"You can't even tell a friend from an enemy."

Ouch, that hurts. To think that for a second, a mere second, I liked him. To hell with you Trent.

"And which one are you?" I question. He squints at me.

"Find out for yourself, sweety," he laughs. My cheeks flame with his term of endearment. I could kill him right here. I seriously contemplate this. No one would suspect me.

"What happened to 'freak'?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," he says as if he just remembered, "Freak."

"I hate you."

"Lie."

"How many times do I need to tell you. It's the truth."

"No, it's not. I can see it in your eyes, which you haven't taken off of me." I snap my eyes off him, my cheeks flaming again.

"So you never did tell me, did you like any of the art pieces?" he asks as if our previous conversation never happened. I walk up my front steps, the light has almost completely gone out from the sky.

"No," I lie, still thinking about the picture of the blind guitarist, "I hated them, just like I hate you."

And with that I run inside and slam the door in his face. My etiquette lessons almost make me turn around and apologise for the door slamming but what he says behind the door stops me.

"I like you Levi, even though you lie lie like there's no tomorrow," he laughs and walks away. I kick the door in frustration, how dare he call me a liar on my own property.

But deep down I know that he's right, he can see through me like I'm transparent. And for that I desperately hate him for.

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