A Lost Love and A Life

        Your eyes begin to fill with tears, filling to the brim, ready to spill down your cheeks like a weakening floodgate trying to hold back rapidly rising water, as you read the message she had sent you. “I’m sorry, but I found someone better than you” the short text says. Her words sting you, delivering pain worse than an angry swarm of killer bees. You sit silently on the edge of your bed as your tears leap off of your face to their demise on top of your phone.

“Why…”

You mutter that accursed word as if it were venom. That single word causes your pain to become that of a wild animal, trapped, as a raging forest fire burns at its fur and skin, the smoke burning its lungs, and its cries sad and desperate. Soon, that pain is numbed by anger, but you are not angry at the girl who had smashed your heart as if it was spider, you are angry at yourself. Your shoulders rise and fall as sobs shake your body. Your tears are heavy and burn, like molten lead. These tears are filled with hatred, strengthening the poisons called self hatred and despair that course through your veins, eating away at your mind.

You cry and sob until you run out of tears and drift off to sleep. Your dreams are filled with her face, her smile, and then her cruel laughter, causing your dreams to turn into nightmares. Soon, something inside your dreams causes you to wake, your eyes fluttering open. You have forgotten the pain you had before your slumber, but it soon returns as you notice the dampness of your tear soaked pillow. You eventually fall back asleep at some point, but it is a dreamless, restless sleep.

You wake that morning, your eyes red from crying the night before, and your throat sore from your sobs. You slowly reach for your phone to check the time and see that it is Saturday, causing you to sigh. You sigh because you will not have to suffer from the crippling glances of your peers. Your mother yells up to you. She is asking you what you would like for breakfast. You open your bedroom door and yell as best as you can down the steps, telling her that you aren’t hungry right now. Then you hear your phone vibrate against the wooden top of your bedstand. Then, it vibrates again and again, over and over, until it suddenly stops. You move over to it and look at the screen. You just got 7 messages, all from numbers you don’t recognize.

As you read these texts your depression changes into horror. The girl you had given your heart to, and then shattered it, told her friends your deepest darkest secrets. You had entrusted those secrets to her, so they would be safe and so you would not have to carry their burden alone. Your eyes burn, unable to gather tears, as you read the texts. The 7 texts either are calling you a faggot for liking girls as well as guys, or some other cruel thing. These words burrow deep into your being, embedding themselves in your soul as they release their slow working toxins.

As the week progresses, the texts you receive from unknown number become worse; each insult more cruel and harming than the ones from the day before. You are able to live with these insults throughout the week. They hurt like sticks and stones, but instead of breaking your bones, they break your soul. Yet, you keep trudging through a battle field called the hallways of your school. You are a messenger boy, unarmed and defenseless, as you run in between gunners and tanks, attempting to dodge bombs that are dropped upon you.

One day, a gunner follows you home. She waits until you are waking up Saturday morning, before firing the bullet that pierces your heart.

You rub last night’s sleep from your eyes as you hear your phone vibrate, the gunner’s gunshot. You stare at the screen. The text was from the girl who had broke you and spread your secrets. You open the message, hoping that it is an apology.

“I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself”, the first line reads, “But I wish you would”.

The bullet hits its target.You shatter like glass. Your tired mind comes up with answer to the text, driven by all the insults and pain you have suffered. You stand up and head to the bathroom, your hand shaking as you reach for the medicine cabinet. You pull a half full bottle of your father’s medicine out of the shelved cabinet. You open the bottle and begin to swallow the pills, one by one, each with a little bit of water. You then head to your bedroom to lay on your bed and wait for the large amount of medication to take effect.

One of the headlines in the local newspaper the follow week reads as “Local Boy Commits Suicide”. Your parents weep, their tears fall like yours had when your love left you. Your ex-girlfriend feels little guilt as she walks around the school with her “better” boyfriend. If you were watching this, you would realize that your death changed nothing.

At least, not for the better of things.