After witnessing Bri Carmichael’s pain, Cole Burkely is determined to help her heal.
That home visit changed my life.
She is a shell of the person I knew.
I just want each day to end so the night can swallow my pain.
She still has so much to give.
I want to help her stand on her own again.
I’m not ready to let go.
She’s worth sticking around for.
My will to keep moving forward is stalled.
I want to make her smile again.
He has a good heart, but I can’t be the one to take care of it.
She doesn’t know that a long time ago I dreamed of her heart and soul.
My story has ended.
Our story is just beginning.
My fingers weave in my hair and tug hard. A loud yell escapes my lips, and my eyes land on the reason for the ruckus. An excruciating cry bubbles in my chest, slowly building as if adding to my pain. With another scream, the tornado within me explodes. It escapes angrily, as my body swooshes around my house, knocking things down as I come in contact with them. Glass shatters. Metal clacks against the tile. Cushions swoosh as they’re thrown through the air.
Uncontrollable and destructible fury burns within me until I melt into a pile of ashes on the cool tile. The water from my eyes extinguishes the burning heat as I sink further onto the floor. I curl into myself, fists hitting the hard surface.
I don’t know how long I stay like this for, but eventually I start to drift away, my mind numb and my heart slowing down. Before I completely fall asleep, I sit up. My head is pounding and my body is stiff from tension. I close my eyes for a few beats, and reassess the destruction around me when I reopen them.
I was okay a few days ago when Olivia came by. As okay as I could be in my situation. Today, I lost it. Something inside me triggered and I lost control. I tiptoe around the broken glass with my bare feet and grab the broken frame I launched across the living room.
I hug it to me, careless of shards of glass that could cut me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the frame. “I’m such an asshole. Sorry.” I fight the urge to cry again. I pull the frame from my chest and stare at the picture of Josh and I. The glass scratched a bit of the gloss, but it’s still a beautiful picture of us. I shake off the excess glass, not even wincing when I get a small cut on my finger. The pain is welcomed.
After cleaning the mess, I sit cross-legged on the couch with a fresh glass of wine. Nothing will get rid of this headache, so I might as well fuel it with alcohol. Besides, I could use the disconnection alcohol offers. Another night of forgetting for a little while about the loss I’m grieving. Another night I sleep through most of it.
Copyright 2018, Fabiola Francisco
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Lovin’ On You