The Heart Break

The tradition is haunting, in a way. Giving your heart to the person you love. But I'll still do it. I have to.

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I could feel it, right there, in my chest. Or, I should say, I couldn’t feel anything. That was the problem. My chest that would rise and fall like angels with hidden morals. My chest that would pound like waves onto the rock covered beach. I only really noticed it occasionally, but it was always there. It was always pumping. Always keeping me loving and hurting and feeling and hating. I wouldn’t miss that last one. The boy rose, his eyes welled up with fresh tears, as I haphazardly covered my now empty chest. I held out my hand. This was supposed to be an honour. Giving your heart to your soulmate. It was tradition. My heart continued to beat in my weighed down hand, less enthusiastically than before. It seemed to miss its warm cave of bone and muscle. It seemed to miss me, but that was wrong; it had always belonged to him. Always. I felt a rush of cold air envelop me, the hole in my chest making me feel so hollow, so empty. It reminded me of when I was young, when mother ran away. That knowing that you would never feel whole again. I didn’t want this. He must have noticed my hesitation, as he took a step toward me, delicate fingers, those of a worked pianist, fluttering over my wrist. I tried to gulp without making it obvious. This was wrong. What if this was a mistake? But as his longing deep green eyes pushed to meet mine, I reassured myself. This was normal. This was what always happened. This is a big deal, but it would be okay. He examined the heart, never touching it, only twisting his head from side to side to peep at the different chambers. Finally, he took another step toward me. My arm was getting tired, and my heart was heavy. Were hearts supposed to be this heavy? Or was the trauma of growing up without a mother or father, without education, without a single word to others for five whole years, affecting the weight of the heart? I didn’t care anymore. It was no longer mine to bear. He cupped his hands, waiting for me. He was patient; another thing that made him oh so different to me. Where he stood and waited, I grumbled and checked my watch. Where he politely asked again, I scowled and tutted. He was perfect. He lifted the great weight from my trembling hands. I frowned, noticing his grin. It wasn’t his usual dimple-loaded-cocked-to-the-right cheeky smile. It was… almost menacing. Almost scary. Almost. I squinted in the new sunlight. I saw a glimmer, and I knew right away. I was about to die. His sword slashed the heart with a single swoosh, his eyes now frantic, his grin evil. And I was gone. Now, looking back from the place of no emotions, no movements, no thoughts, I knew my heart belonged to me all along. I knew it was stupidly heavy because it was in the wrong place. It was meant to stay with me. Forever. But my mother would have been proud. I died in pursuit of love.
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