A Beating Heart

She hated this. There was a time when none of this would even have mattered. Choose. Abuse. Discard. It used to be so easy, no hassle, problem free. Being numb is so much better than “feeling”. Now it’s this disease. The constant dull pain of humanity.

The ever-present burden of a beating heart.

This lurching physical pain of feeling. Some say it’s beautiful. A beautiful thing to feel this deeply in a world this cruel. They didn’t know. They couldn’t feel it. The pain. The complete physical surrender to a full body contraction, the momentary stop of your heart, the ice cold grip of fear.

abandonment.

rejection.

...“he doesn’t love me.”

She never cared because it never mattered. She was in control. In control of herself. In control of them. Nobody could hurt her. Nobody ever did. Now... reduced to a shivering pile of unmovable nothing her obituary would read a corny line from some or other musician, something about love and a broken heart.

Love is the mean kid with the magnifying glass frying ants in the front yard. It coaxes you out of your shell, it lures you in with the promise of something sweet. You find it, it envelopes you, there is nothing in the world more beautiful, nothing tastes better... it heats up, this is really going somewhere and you can feel it, in your smile and in your eyes... then suddenly its a different kind of heat (cue magnifying glass), fried... it’s over.

Of all that can possibly be felt, love has to be the centerpiece of things that suck. That pain. The gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

Losing yourself.

She had always known but hoped.

Love was not for her.

She needed to be alone

To be human was so wildly overrated. She never thought pain like this was possible. She didnt know a person, another human being could make you feel like this. Where she came from humans were regarded as lucky, others often got lost in their romanticized ideas about the beautiful intensity of feeling.. of being human. Now… here she was. Not able to think of anything worse.

If there ever was any doubt whether love truly existed one just had to take a look at that lovely little book called the bible. Jilted. Adam and Eve. Betrayed by a god who promised nothing but love. A God of love. A benevolent god.

A god of spite, and ruin more like. There is no love in this world great or small. Just an endless pit of mournful suffering...

She closed her journal and locked it. The key slipped safely into her pocket. A secret she needn’t share with anyone. Her doctor told her to start writing more, write down her feelings about life and love and the world. “Write in the third person if you want, write anything that comes to mind, write what you’re thankful for” Thankful. Hah. As if she had anything to be thankful for. She didn’t even want to be here, be alive. But as we now know, saying that to your therapist earns you a one way ticket to the psych ward. (Even though her therapist couldn’t understand that her not wanting to live just means going back home and there’s no way to explain that without sounding even crazier.) Imagine if she told them that she was raised by the lord of the underworld, home was hellfire and daddy was good ol’ Luci the first ever proof that there is no love in this world.

Not much of a father figure. Growing up with Satan as your only parental guidance is… interesting to say the least. She really thought that she would escape this torment, but just like her family members before her she had to take part in this ‘rite of passage’. “You can’t punish a human if you don’t know what it’s like to be human” her dad’s voice echoed through her mind. “You have to endure the pain, the suffering, the love, the beauty… all of it.” She really fucking hated him sometimes. Of course that didn’t matter to him, he probably liked it. He would LOVE to hear that she had gotten a therapist because her stupid immortal heart somehow fell in love with a human. A normal, everyday, nothing special at all, human.

Ugh.

Why does everything have to hurt so much when you’re human? She was immortal, but even her immortal back was aching from too many hours sat in an uncomfortable chair, writing feelings that shoudn’t exist.

She was suddenly thankful that her father wasn’t allowed to spy on her during this time. Thankful to be hidden from him. Imagine he could see her now. Grippy socks and all. How the hell is she going to get out of this mess. Why did she even get a therapist in the first place? Just as that thought passed through her mind, the answer just out of reach, she heard the knock of someone at the door. “ Time for group, dear” came nurse Major’s voice from behind her. “Be right there” she replied reluctantly. Honestly the worst part of all of this has got to be group. It’s bad enough having to feel feelings, but having to talk about them seems cruel. She put her journal in the small space between her desk and the floor, it slid in perfectly, hiding it from the world as if it didn’t exist. Getting up, she gave one big sigh, slapped on a fake smile and opened the door.