Goth Girl: Isn’t There A Band-Aid for HeartBreak?

Confidential: The Goth Girl’s Diary: Is there no Band-aid for heartbreak?

 

 

 

You think you are recovering. You think things are looking up for you. You think you’re beginning to forget and you tell yourself that things are back to normal. You are back to normal.

Until you get that phone call; that unexpected SMS from the ex. Only, the Ex is just for show because they still very much own your heart. Your heart refuses to Ex-ile them even when your head and your lips do.

Your phone beeps and you see:
“I miss you.”
Your first instinct is to punch back a reply; like you used to before when his texts were what lightened your world.

And then you remember. You remember that things have changed; that you parted ways a few months ago. That you no longer have the liberty to spill how you feel.
It doesn’t stop the feelings from tumbling out; the memories you’ve been trying to bury by creating new ones, spill to the surface; raw as ever. Like it was only yesterday you said goodbye to the one you loved.
When will it stop hurting to think about him? When will you have the courage to look at his picture and not feel a pang of…something? Can these feelings die already!

But then again, how do you erase years of friendship, love, laughter, fights…memories? You wish they would disappear like they didn’t exist; and yet sometimes remembering those moments you shared is what keeps you sane.
You put up a smiling face for everyone so they don’t see how much it hurts inside, so they don’t think you’re weak. You make them see you’re happy without him. You don’t let them know that some nights you soak your pillows with tears of longing; that sometimes the short breaks you take in the toilet stall are actually timeouts to cry your heart out.
They say time heals all wounds but you’re beginning to think that some wounds never heal. No, you just get used them being there that at some point you become familiar with the pain it brings you.
You do not know if you want the wound of losing his love healed, or if you want to wrap the pain around you as a companion. Something to remind you that love is pain and that when you give all that you are to a particular someone, you never really get all of you back.
Your friends ask how you’re doing and you reply with the clichéd ‘fine’, your pain is yours to bear and not to share. You refuse to admit that when you remember him sometimes, you feel like an addict who’s going into withdrawal. How can you explain that there are times that the pain is so much that tears are a luxury?
Is there no Band-aid for heart break, you wonder? You know that heartbreaks have been overrated, every chick on the block claims to have been heartbroken because they like how it sounds when the words roll down their tongue but have they really? Have they felt like tearing out their hearts and squeezing to death every ounce of sentiment in it, just so that they can stop ‘feeling’ things? Have they?

 

 

 

Yours truly: Alone and heart wrenched; the ‘dark’ girl.

Morphed

I have always been innocent. At least I believed myself to be so up until three hours ago. No, scratch that, the crack of my innocence started years ago, but even then I’d considered myself a victim of the evil that pervaded the world.
That is, up until three hours ago.
I hear the baby crying from somewhere distant. I’m immobile. I can’t move, in fact  I’ve sat like this for close the past three hours.
The room is cramped and hot. My dress is soaked with sweat and something else. Blood. The room is sadly ventilated. The only source of fresh air is the four inch space in the wall called the window.
When we’d first moved here, I’d wondered what the landlord had thought while building the house; if it qualified to be called that.
All the while I’m sitting immobile; I avoid looking in that direction. I don’t want to see the evil I had just done that was beginning to reek in the stuffy room.
It’s 11pm on a Friday night and the compound seems to be empty. I’m betting everyone has gone to bed. Everyone except me.
Funny, he’ll never be going to anywhere ever again.
The reality of what I’ve done has just begun creeping in. All through the night, when I’d planned my escape, I‘d worked with a cold calculation I had no idea I was capable of.

Even when he’d walked into the room; staggering confidently like he always did, the fear hadn’t come then. I’d sat on the bed waiting patiently for him to come to me.
“Come say hi to me, sweetheart.”
I flinched. I hated when he called me that. I marvelled at his English. Impeccable as usual. Who would’ve ever suspected what a sick guy he was?
No one knew. Not the neighbours, although they could care less.
We had moved in here without any flourish, no grand entrance. Who would know what went on within the confines of this room?
“What is it my beauty?” He asked when I didn’t move. “Why you locked up in here in the dark?”
I stared at him. I was too busy calculating.

“Stupid girl! Come here!”  He was rough now. Getting angry; which is what I wanted. I wanted him to come to me.
“ You dare disobey me! I will deal with you!” He lunged for me.
I’d anticipated this so I moved slightly and he crashed into the bed. Now I stood up. I watched him raise himself up in slow, painful movements.
“You’re possessed!” He screamed at me, coming at me again.
This time I revealed the knife. His eyes widened when he saw the glimmer, but it was too late. He couldn’t stop himself.
I plunged it into his chest. His scream was deafening. I watched his mouth form into an O as he collapsed on me.
“Cursed…child.” He sputtered, blood spilling from the knife wound.

I didn’t shed a single tear when he finally died. I didn’t cry even when the baby began crying. I only cried when I thought of all the things life had deprived me of. I only wished for one thing, that God had given me a voice of my own. Every night since I can remember I’d begged God for a miracle. Just one day to have a voice of my own, one day to be able to talk.
And I asked myself if indeed there was a God who let bad things happen to good people like me. I had my answer. Bad things always happened to good people, but good people sometimes needed to become bad to fix the bad things in their life.
I didn’t know what life held for me now. My brother had always catered for me since our parents died.
And he’d told me the only way to pay him back. In kind.
The tears pour down my face now and I suddenly realise I’m all alone in this world. Well, me and my baby, of course.
I’m suddenly transformed; morphed. 
I’m a no longer just a handicapped person with a child; I’m also a killer.
I just killed my brother. The father of my child.

Written by Mimi Adebayo. Copyright 2013