Bruises & Broken Hearts

The Beginning and The End

They say when you meet your soul mate, supposedly, there is a sense of knowing, a splash of never previously noticed colour, fireworks even. But this is not always the case. My mother told me about the day she met my father, 'I was travelling through ruins of cities and places that had only ever explored at the back of my lingering imagination,' she began. I remember the beauty of the twinkle in her mesmerising blue eyes as she continued to explain, 'everything was so beautiful, the gracious walls and endless amounts of flowers in the cities of love. Paris was breath taking.' Her voice became more delicate as though it might break when she spoke about my father. 'He helped me notice the broken sadness, yet still undeniable beauty in the demolished ruins of ancient places that represented a history more magnificent than the modern civilised areas,' the gentleness in this tone suggested that he was the reasoning for such awe in these places, almost as though his presence enlightened them.

I was laying on her comforting lap and looked up at her. Sorrel brown hair spilled around her face as though attracted to the unique blue found bouncing in her eyes. To say that they were blue was similar to suggesting that the sun was yellow or orange. Sufficient but not accurate enough to apprehend the fire. They roared like storm clouds to warn people that lightning that was soon to hit. Grey and blue embedded in the clouds threatened floods and anger while pupils dilated in passion, eyelashes catching the raindrops. As my thoughts wandered, thinking about the adrenaline that love produces, she balanced her voice. 'Oh, but darling, when he spoke to me as we walked late at night into the darkness of the unknown, it would calm the most omniscient of fear racing through my blood. When he grabbed my hand electricity would surge through my veins, more prominent than any other feeling I had been lucky enough to have engaged in before.' For a second she looked almost excited and young again, a teenager at heart, perhaps. I watched as a seemingly empty shadow grew over her eyes, as though those clouds that signified colour now came alive, a heavy, dark storm, raging with sadness. 'That is why you should not love, my dear, or rather, why I warn you to be careful. He took me to parks, monuments and museums and he would kiss me in every, even remotely, amazing place. I don't think I will ever be able to return to such experiences without the taste of his kiss on my lips or the laugh that arose from his cheeky smirk when we were truly happy. When he left me, only then, was I able to comprehend why storms were named after people.'

I always adored the way my mother spoke, so compassionate and appeasing. Behind her words shouted appetite for the undiscovered. Walking through the inspiring city of Moscow spoke for her, snow falling atop fur coats and high boots conformed scenery that begged to be shared. 'At the beginning I swore he would stay, but I felt it fall apart and I...' her voice froze for a second as though considering her next words and recalling things she believed she had forgotten years ago. 'I just couldn't let go. That, love, was the hardest part. When it all shattered before my eyes I feared for the worst, I thought we could help each other and it was not knowing that it was over, it was knowing that he didn't try.' I watched the anguish in her eyes similar to those streets, ambient and equally as exquisite, the most breath-taking that you would ever be lucky enough to explore. 'The hardest part was walking away from him, my heart remaining metaphorically in his hands, blood under his finger nails and stained on his shirt,' her voice trailed for a distinct moment, her words soft and evidently fighting the next comment; 'but he did not run after me and refused to return what he so callously stole.'