333: Broken Heart Syndrome
As she lay there, feet sticking out from underneath the duvet, head stubbornly pressed into the side of the comforter, dull ache in her right knee, her eyes wet with tears, the little girl truly believed right then and there that she could die of broken heart syndrome. This song lay untouched, unheard since June, but for the purposes of overwhelming herself in nostalgic melancholia she looped it on her phone. The little girl wanted to die of broken heart syndrome. She could feel bony fingers tugging violently on her heartstrings, strangling the fibres of her heart in a deathly grip. She whimpered as the pain washed over her, but this time it did not subside. Her heart throbbed painfully, each beat reminding her of how much she wanted to die. She tried to close her eyes, but the undulating beat of the depressing mixtape forced her eyelids open. The voice of a seventeen year old Korean boy who made this rap ballad mixtape, just breaking into Korean rap. She admired him, he who was now twenty four years of age this year and the king of third generation Korean rap. She silently thanked him for the mixtape he had made as a teenager. It caused her immense grief and heartbreak, both of which she had been lacking in recently.
In bed she turned over and wished again that she could die of broken heart syndrome. What if she erased him? He who was the love of her life, what if she deleted him, his email address, the google doc, everything that reminded her of him? Of course he’ll get angry when he sees this, but a little girl wants to die anyway. No, she would never do that, erase him, I mean. The girl is silly, granted that, but she knows she would lose a large part of her soul. She deleted other boys, but she can’t delete this one. She’ll never meet anyone like him again. Maybe if she keeps pushing his buttons he’ll leave her for good and she’ll be finally able to have a reason to die by her own hand. Well, not die. Just become an unrestorable former shell of herself. She’ll never meet anyone like him ever again. Her heart aches even more. The bony fingers tugging her heartstrings, not her own, but of her dark side’s. She’s selfish. In a epiphanous moment she resolves to learn how to properly use a pair of chopsticks. Maybe he’ll stop teasing her once she learns. Or she could kill herself, that works too. It’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Why not end all future problems simultaneously too? Maybe he’ll meet someone like her again. Violent, passionate, dark, intelligent, gregarious, sexual, but with a love of life. And not wanting to die of something like broken heart syndrome. She’s furious at herself. She cannot sleep. She remembers the first kiss and revels in the forgotten memory of it all. The tears have dried now. She has no tears. She is dead inside. She is only halfway there.
She was overreacting, as always.
Really fucking hate these mood swings. And persona switches.