The Name's Sinnner- Chapter Twenty Eight
If you've ever been heartbroken you would've experienced several excruciating emotions, whisking you into a turmoil of pain. You would've felt as if the sole happiness of your life was wrenched out you, leaving you bitter and empty. You would've felt cold rushing to the tips of your fingers as your body shook uncontrollably and you battled to prevent any tears from seeping out of your swollen eyes because you're a guy- and let's face it guys don't cry. Well that's what's been drummed into you ever since you were born.
Or if you're a girl you might have held your knees close to your chest, sobbing until life was sucked out of you and were forced to sit there engulfed in an eerie silence, staring into a sea of darkness, drained out of energy to produce any more tears.
Million songs are written about heartbreak for a reason. Heartbreak can have the power to destroy even the toughest and strongest emotionally stable people, but false hope- false hope can kill you.
Imagine thinking you might finally have that one thing or one person you've dreamed of all of your life.The person you'd had many sleepless nights over because they'd ignored you when you'd said "hi," to them in the corridor or hadn't bothered to ever text you back in two weeks. The person whom you weren't able to fall asleep before thinking of them and contemplating what it might be like for them to be yours. The person whom you've memorized their smile like the back of your hand. The one whom you doodle hearts around their name when you're bored in class. Imagine grasping onto a glimmer of hope that you'd have a chance with them or that they'd reciprocate your feeling towards them, only to have it all wrenched out of you.
It's that moment when you're left feeling empty and hollow that you feel your heart skin to your chest and you know right then and there that it's all over. It's then that you begin to realize how hopeless having hope really is.
We've all had our moments like these when we feel as though the only thing keeping us alive is the fact that our bodies are functioning. Our hearts although broken into a million fragile pieces is still beating and our lungs still regulating our breathing. It may take days or moths or years but you eventually pick yourself up and move on. Or you live like a ghost in your past and never come to terms with the fact that the love of your life shattered your heart into million pieces and never cared to look back, like my mother did.
I remember the day my old man told mother he'd had it with her. "I woke up years ago and stopped loving you." He'd said. "Damn nothing is keeping me here anymore," he'd slammed the door. The glass of champagne mum had been holding slipped out of her fingers and broke into hundreds of small shards of glass. Her fingers were bleeding. Tears were streaming out of her eyes as she quenched hard onto the small shards of glass allowing the glass to slice through her skin. Although I was still a little kid back then, I knew the emotional pain of heartbreak was hurting my mum more than the shards of glass were. It's a known fact that emotional pain always hurt more than physical pain.
Every time my father came home damn well broke so mum could bail him out with a bit of cash, mum would pull herself off the sofa, wrap her flimsy cardigan over her low cut top and tip toe to her bedroom. Dad would crash on the sofa after raiding our fridge for some beer and mum would scurrage around her wallets for a few notes or sometimes coins if that's all she left that. "Want a sip bud." Dad would ask me although I was only toddler. I'd always bobble my head up nodding, unaware that my own father was offering me a sip of alcohol when I was way most definitely under age.
It was right about that time when mum would come out of her room fuming, screaming and yelling at dad. She'd shove the money in his hands and yell at him to "Get the hell out." By now tears would be seeping down her eyes as she'd quench her fist hard enough that they'd begin bleeding. "Let me see to it." He'd whisper to her, barely audible. "Get the hell outta my house. Go back to that hoe. You've got enough money to get ya back up on your feet. Get outta my face." She'd yell. As if dad didn't care that his ex-wife was excessively bleeding from her hands, he'd walk out, with no remorse or gratitude whatsoever. We wouldn't see him again for months.
