mourning

Heartbreakers: a Short Fiction

“A love story told backwards, starting from the ending.”

trigger warning: begins with a vague implication of suicide.

I don’t know how to tell you this, and maybe it’s better I don’t.

And I know one day, I’d break your heart.

Maybe it’s better I don’t.

I’m lying in a hospital bed, a mixture of medicine and whiskey in my stomach. I’m dying, Fiona.

I used to write you letters after you left me. They weren’t exactly love letters. Well, I’m not sure you ever read them, but they were begging for forgiveness, Fiona. I know I messed up along the way. I see where I screwed up now.

I sent you little photographs I took. I don’t know if you ever looked at them, Fiona, but I took small photos. Random things here & there. Pictures I thought you’d like. The moon. A watch tower. Sometimes, I’d include things I’d find on walks. Bird feathers. Business cards floating around, then stomped on by passing cars.

Anyway. I thought about us a lot before I ended up here in the hospital.

About our story.

The way you slammed the door the last night we were together. The way the stars blinked as I tried to hide my tears when I told you to get out of my house. I watched you leave. You didn’t have a car or a bus pass, but you held your chin high and walked away.

I wonder where you walked to, but you never came back like I thought you would. We had fought one last time. Screamed one last time over some stupid thing. I accused you of cheating. You told me I was stupid and suspicious.

Fiona, you were right. I was stupid and suspicious.

You were too lovely to be mine.

I knew I couldn’t keep you. I was bound to destroy something so beautiful.

I remember the glint in your eye. The hurt look in your green eyes.

A part of me wanted to rush over, to beg forgiveness, but I barrelled on anyway like an idiot, accusing you.

It was just an accusation before I shouted.

But before the accusations, before the shouting, we were in bed together, it was nice. My breath was like cigarettes and whiskey. I hadn’t known it at the time. It was just us holding one another, watching some black-and-white film. Some classic movie you begged me to see. And when I turned to kiss you, you asked me to brush my teeth.

My feelings were too delicate, I guess.

I didn’t know the brutish combination of cigarettes and whiskey.

I could have just brushed them instead of turned into a monster.

But even before the film, there was a girl who loved a boy.

She held him near and whispered away his ghosts – the ones who troubled him like that of his former friends who didn’t understand him or his mother who told him nobody would love him.

And Fiona, I wanted to ask you to marry me one day. I truly did.

And we went out on dates. I took you out and showed you off. You with your lustrous dark hair and beautiful eyes like jade. You whose hair I brushed at bedtime, after making love.

It was backwards and all out of order. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, but I couldn’t because you were too lovely and I knew one day, you’d break my heart.

Isabelle Palerma

Unlike You: a Poem

“Unlike you . . .” a prompt from Kay A.

In less than a month,
unlike you to care about the wreckage of the Titanic that is my heart.
I have witnessed you stampede on
and trample me barefoot.
Yet,
the teeth you bared is what
I have come to expect.

Family taught me
(for better or worse)
to murder with mercy.
When you were flashing your baby teeth,
sharpening like knives,
I was practicing my smiles
in polished glass.

Unlike you to offer condolences
or express empathy,
and yet, the past few days,
while Lazarus has been in the tomb,
a different side of you has been exposed.

Unlike you to show warmth,
still a reptilian cold underneath,
but the air is a bit milder now – less frost,
less chill.

Unlike you to offer benevolence and yet,
a crack of a smile,
a beginnings of generosity.

Is it possible you were murdered by my mercy?
Killed by my kindness?

Or did New Year’s resolutions just fall
a few days behind on this calendar?

I’m not one to gaze the gift horse
in the mouth,
but I do have my suspicions
when you were flashing those fangs,
honing them like knives,
and are now sweet as spun sugar.

Just call me Doubting Thomas
if your kindness only lasts as long as
Lazarus was in the tomb.

Isabelle Palerma

See You Later, Dear Friend

It’s been ten years since you died, but it’s been more than ten years since I’ve seen you last. I still see you in my dreams occasionally. The last time I saw you, you apologized to me, but I wasn’t sure why.

You said you were going to work on getting better. That you had hit rock bottom, and you never wanted to experience it again.

You took me to a bar in the city with paint splatters on the wall and we shared dinner. I think we held hands.

You told me what it felt like hitting your lowest of lows, waking up in your car with vomit all over you, not sure what had happened to you the night before.

When you hugged me, it didn’t feel like goodbye, but it was.

We used to talk on the phone as you painted your nails. I’d listen to the sirens in the distance and wonder if we lived different lives. If we could ever experience a world the same way.

I’d braid your hair on Friday nights; other girls would put your hair in pigtails, but I liked a single braid.

I remember lying my head on your chest, your hairy stomach soft underneath me. You never complained about the weight of me.

I remember you playing the guitar at night. I remember listening to Fleetwood Mac with you and thinking all our thoughts were worth writing down.

I never took a picture with you because I thought I was ugly, unphotogenic.

I remember you telling me you played me the guitar because you didn’t know the words to say.

It’s been ten years since you died, and even though I have a guitar, I still don’t know the words to say.

I never said goodbye.

She told me you loved me. That you always loved me. I must have hurt you because I laughed when you tried to kiss me the first time.

But now, you are buried and gone, and I’m here. You always played me “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. I guess I just wish you were here. I feel like we could talk all night and maybe I’d let you play me the guitar. And maybe you’d let me braid your hair.

It’s been too long, and I never said goodbye.