The Love Song (Prologue)

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I have always had a theatrical, Hollywood version of what heartbreak would feel like. It was permanently stored somewhere in my head after years of exposure to cliché romance movies: The boy breaks the girl’s heart, she falls to pieces, yadda yadda yadda...  Cue heart wrenching break up music and a torrential downpour.

Let’s just say that this dramatic version was a let down. There were no tears—not even a single smudge of mascara. I didn’t eat my weight in Ben and Jerry’s and I most definitely didn’t spend the next few days cynically shouting at my TV as I started a new, unhealthy relationship Lifetime.

This is what happened instead…

He stared at me with a detached gaze, almost like he was the only person in the room as he waited for a response. Without thinking, I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. What did he just say?

Then it hit me hard.

My first thought was that I needed to get out, instantly. I whipped around, raced out of the room and flew down the steps, shoving past the party-goers. Once I had hurtled out the house, my legs stopped shaking. The slam of the screen door was lost in the low vibrating beat of the music. A few kids from my school were lounging on the front porch, beers in hand, but I walked past them without saying a word.

The cool night air brushed softly against my face and tugged on the few strands of hair that had escaped my ponytail. Pulling out my phone, I dialed a number I knew by heart. When the call went straight to voicemail, I left a message. “Hey, it’s me. Ca-can you come pick me up from the party?”

Snapping my phone shut, I cut through the grass towards the street. Early morning water droplets collected on my bare feet. I had left my sandals somewhere by the pool. But the water was cooling, and a numb, calming feeling washed over me.

Black concrete rolled up to meet the lawn and I stopped at the edge to wait. Rumbles from a jet plane pulled my attention above, and I watched as the flashing lights streamed across the dark sky. Since it was a clear night, I could almost make out the little dipper.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. My mind was surprisingly calm. Why wasn’t I livid?

When he had told me those few, quick words I felt like my heart had exploded; its broken pieces rattled around in my chest, damaging my internal organs. As I had ran through the house, the broken pieces had settled at the bottom of my stomach making me feel sick. But now, outside of the party, the feeling was gone. I felt like... nothing.

I sat down on the curb. This wasn’t how my story was supposed to end, so why wasn’t I panicking? There was no possible way that anything would work itself out after what he had done to me. There would be no knight in shining armor to put me back together. I was in too many pieces.

His words made me feel plain and unimportant. He had taken the one thing that I was proud of away from me. Without that, who was I? I was empty.

A bright pair of headlights interrupted my quiet darkness and a familiar car pulled up beside me.

The window rolled down. “Mikey? I got your voicemail. What’s wrong?”

*****

Let's get this straight. I know I'm not perfect. My hair never falls right, my fingernails are a disaster-zone, and I think my left pinky toe is bigger than the other.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not beautiful, because I am. Actually, let me make a correction: I’m not beautiful; I’m frickin’ gorgeous. So gorgeous in fact, that I shit pretty, sparkly flowers out my ass. Now how many of you can say that?

Before I get ahead of myself, let me start by saying that I haven’t always been so confident. In high school I was as insecure as they come. I thought my size eight jeans made me an elephant and that my B cup meant that I hadn’t hit puberty. Elephant plus lack of puberty equals what exactly? A prepubescent wild African animal? In other words, I wasn’t happy. Sound familiar?

Someone, probably my mom because she knows everything, once said that happiness is looking in the mirror and liking what you see. But what happens if you don’t like what stares back at you?

It’s not uncommon. In the world today, 90% of women are unhappy with themselves.

Truthfully, it’s not hard to believe. I mean, have you seen Gossip Girl lately? How about watch the Victoria Secret fashion show? Not everyone can look that way. Yet, we dye our hair, tan our skin and hop from crash diet to crash diet in attempts to.

Why in the world are we stupid enough to put ourselves through all that torture? Simple—so we can feel good enough for him. I’m talking about Mr. Perfect; the one guy that every girl has a crush on.

Somehow we get this horrible idea stuck in our heads that we aren’t good enough because we don’t look like America’s Next Top Model, and because of this we will never find love. Mr. Perfect will never turn into Prince Charming and we will never be swept off our feet. No dreamy horseback rides into the setting sun. No happily ever after.

But ladies! It’s not who we are that holds us back, it’s who we think we need to be!

I used to be one of those women. I was a girl who needed to change herself to feel worthy of being loved. His name was Decklan Brody and he was the perfect guy. I felt, no, I knew, that if I was with him, then maybe I was worthy of being loved after all.

Then I graduated high school. There were three events that took place the summer before my freshman year of college. Those three small events forever changed my life. Combined, they make up the smartest, stupidest and craziest things I have ever done.

That summer taught me something special; you don’t have to be perfect to let someone love you. And, being yourself is the best way to make someone fall in love with you. It might sound cliché, but how can someone love you if you don’t love yourself?

I learned to be happy when I looked at my reflection. But in all reality, the mirror is just one big lie. It can’t possibly show you what’s on the inside.

And isn’t that what really counts?

______________________________________________________________________________

Hey everyone!

So this is my new story The Love Song. It is a re-write of Macaroni, Streakers and Flesh-Eating Zombies. Hopefully this new title will be less likey to scare you all off.

With this story, I am going to be doing a new thing where I ask a question at the end of the chapter.

Question #1: Who was your first fictional character crush? Mine has to be Prince Jonathan from Tamora Pierce's Alanna: The Song of the Lioness. BUT Jace Wayland from The City of Bones is frickin' hot as well :D

**** PLEASE NOTE! I was offered a chance to publish this story, but was not entirely happy with the deal so I turned the offer down. However, since there was interest shown in the story I will continue to pursue to have it published outside of Wattpad and therefore have made the decision refrain from posting more chapters. This story will not be finished on Wattpad, but will hopefully be on the bookshelf at your local bookstore in the future! ****

Peace and Cheers,

Ali

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