The Broken Writer
The Broken Heart
The Broken Writer
Quietly, he sat at his desk and thought about her. The same woman that shattered his heart, with lies. The woman had broken his spirit, and turned a gentle man into a weakened soul.
As he sat there, he ran his fingers through his hair and wondered, ‘Have I done something wrong?’
He held his head, with arms propped upon the old wood desk. Many thoughts raced through his mind. Was he not good enough for her? Did his work keep him from her? He knew that it had but she had promised to be patient and wait for him until his work was completed.
As he sat back, in the office chair, he sighed heavily and stared at the flickering cursor on a blank page. With, or without her, he knew he had to continue. After all, his work was not about her, and although it was for her, he was bound to finish by obligation, alone.
Alone…the emptiness he felt in his heart from the lies she had told. Ask her for those lies, and they would have been, denied unto the death but his heart knew. He knew. She had lied to him for the last time and the distraction of her was, no longer wanted and no longer needed.
Quietly, he sat there and wondered why she kept secrets. Why did she keep her friends from him? ‘Is there any good in her,’ he thought to himself.
“Shake her from your mind,” he said, aloud as he tried to break free from the thought of her.
He stood up from his desk and slowly walked into the kitchen. Tears would burn at his eyes but he could not allow even a single tear to trail down his face. He would not allow himself to cry for the loss of her, the anger he felt for her and the truth he had hidden from himself.
She was no good and he knew it. He knew that she had lied to him so many times but he loved her, so he buried the truth just to keep her close to him. Is this not the way of us all? Hoping for love, begging for love only to get the little breadcrumbs they give us.
He walked into his simple, little kitchen and poured a glass of tea as he wrestled with himself to break free of thinking about her. Nevertheless, how could he? She had broken his heart and there it lay, bleeding on the ground and void of life.
He placed the tea pitcher back in his refrigerator and grabbed up his glass of tea before he walked over to the sink to look out the window. A thick fog glowed within the light of a street lamp, as he stood there and longed for the days when things were, as he always hoped they would be.
“I can’t do this,” he swore, as he stepped away from the sink and quickly, walked back into the living room.
After placing his tea carefully at his desk, he sat back down and stared at the screen. The cursor, ever faithful, flickered in anticipation of him writing. Finally, he rested his hands on the edge of the desk as he poised his fingers to strike at the keys.
“If I cannot forget her, then I will write about her and the world will know what she has done to me,” he declared.
His fingers came to life and the words became his sword against the evil she had wrought upon him. Sentence after sentence, flew from his mind as the cursor, eagerly moved along to brand her forever in the, annuls of time.
Then, he sat back…his fury written and yet he knew…he knew he would always love her. He could never trust her but the love he had for her would never go away…never leave him, like a haunting memory, he would carry his love for her, always.