Dreams of a Shattered Heart

Dreams of a Shattered Heart

998 Words

I awoke draped across the couch like an old coat. Still half-asleep, my eyes fluttered open, but immediately snapped shut. The soft afternoon light filtering in from the open window was too painful to bear, even for a moment.

Attempting to sit, a dull headache formed behind my eyes. I flopped back onto the coach, miserable. It was if every fluid in my body had been poisoned by some kind of sickness. If I moved, even an inch, the poison would invade my vital organs.

Everything hurt.

Every joint, muscle, and ligament felt as though they were locked in place. Slowly, the pins and needles gave way to actual feeling, but this was much worse. That sickening, aching sensation in my head intensified ten-fold.

Smacking my chapped lips together, I searched for a glass of water within arm’s length, but there was just a bottle Scotch. I was never much of a planner, so it didn't surprise me Rosalina, our maid, had placed two Tylenol next to a bottle of Evian on the end table.

The inside of my mouth was coated with a vile-tasting substance. It was so pungent; I snatched the two Tylenol from the table and quickly swallowed them dry, chugging the water until it was all gone. I leaned back on the couch, and begged my mind to slip into the comforts of sleep.

But sleep would not come.

Now that I was semi-conscious, memories of the evening before began sliding into place. As the puzzle pieced itself together to form a picture, I felt embarrassed, guilty, and uncertain of how the night played out. My last lucid memory was around ten p.m. Suddenly, another hazy recollection popped into my mind. I was fairly confident I tipped the limo driver a hundred dollars, gave him a sloppy kiss on the mouth, and told him I loved him.

I sighed, trying to remember what could have happened to make me do such a thing. It was a superb evening, after all. The party had been well-attended, the guests were in high spirits, and the catering was delicious. So, what? What was this nagging sensation that wouldn't go away? Why had I kissed the limo driver and downed half a bottle of Scotch?

Searching within the hazy confines of my mind, I briefly recalled an important moment of the evening. A foggy memory of my husband looking at me with such disgust I was slightly taken aback. I remembered reasoning with myself, thinking he was probably reminiscing about a time I was a size six instead of sixteen. He was constantly badgering me about my weight since our second child was born. He claimed he was concerned about my health, I knew he wasn’t being entirely truthful.

Thirty years.

Thirty years of marriage. It was supposed to be a celebration, but something told me it wasn't. I couldn't quite remember, but the fog was beginning to lift. Finally, I remembered an argument. Angry words were spat in my direction, horribly painful words coming from the man who told me it would be forever. These were words which would pierce any woman with an ego's soul. Something about my appearance, something about an affair, something about love, but not with me anymore.

Shocked, I stood from the couch, dizzy, from the sudden realization. How could I have forgotten? It was Shelia, his assistant. She was twenty-five and still gloriously thin. He told me he was in love with her. He told me he was a stupid, shallow man, but how could he help himself when his wife was such a pig? Instead of anger, I felt the weight of the world crashing down on me. He was gone, I realized. My husband wasn't at work, he had run away. It didn't take long to put all the pieces back together. The completed picture was so horribly grotesque, I ran from the living room and up the stairs.

Not knowing what else to do, I stumbled into my daughter's bedroom and flopped into bed, sobbing into her pillow like a heartbroken teenager. After what seemed like an eternity, the tears died away, and I was exhausted, I didn't fight sleep, but welcomed it, like an old forgotten friend.

That afternoon, I dreamt of my old life. I dreamt of being sixteen again. This was a time when everything was perfect. My body was young and thin, and dreams of becoming anything you wanted actually seemed possible. I dreamt of my husband and the first time we met. I found him impossible and irritating, but somehow charming. I dreamt of him picking a daisy and handing it to me, and then slumping home in embarrassment when I laughed.

I dreamt of the love we shared. Twenty glorious years of marriage, when no one could tell us that true love didn't exist. I dreamt of the full life that had once been mine, and basked in the glory of the sunlit lake where he proposed. Those memories would be mine forever, even if my husband was no longer a part of my life. But, what kind of future would I have without him? Despair began to take hold again.

In my dream, I looked back. Thunderous clouds teamed together in a fury. They were coming for me. I could choose to go back, defeated, letting the storm take me away, or I could run in the other direction. I chose the latter, and in seconds, I escaped its evil clutches.

With the storm behind me, I stopped and walked along the shore of a beautiful lake. Peering into the clear water, my reflection was flawless. I was young again: long, slim, and happy. In the distance, a small sailboat glided towards me. As the boat gently grazed the bank, a young man smiled and extended his hand. I beamed, but shook my head politely. Looking up into the sky, at all the endless possibilities, I closed my eyes, basking in the sheer joy of this moment. And I flew.