3Fallen Lovers, Broken Hearts
I don't think there was ever a point in time when I didn't contemplate ultimate submission, as odd as that sounds. Despite my obvious independence and aloof demeanor, there was always a dark cache in my heart where a terrible want burned softly. Softly, always, like a candle's gentle flame as it flickers in the shadows that played in the crevices of my soul. Softly, that is, until I fell in love for the third time around, and the flame caught, growing stronger and higher 'till it scorched all that was near. Whoever said third time's a charm either lied or was horribly misinformed; this third beau turned out to be my demise.
Perhaps that was overtly dramatic, but it was the only way I could portray the extent of the raw pain and soul-wrenching sorrow in which assaulted me so relentlessly at the end of our relationship. To say that it was heartbreak would be a crude understatement. It was more than heartbreak—it was my beautiful girlfriend, my lover, the light of my fucking life, taking my heart into her lovely hands and squeezing out all the blood and tears I ever possessed. She killed me inside. She didn't have to take a knife to my throat or put a gun to my head; merely with a single inconsiderate action and the careless words that followed she murdered me ruthlessly.
The sad thing is that even in the very end, even as she sunk her ragged, gnawed-on fingernails into the bloody folds of my heart, I thought her so beautiful, so fucking perfect. I couldn't help but continue to love her.
The pain she bestowed upon me was not the only emotion I felt for her, however, for despite our horrible breakup, our relationship was moderately good. Good enough so that I fell for her, at least, and so that I would love her forevermore.
The ghosts from my past were constant shadows over our relationship. She thought I had a multitude of problems, each and every one of them horrible, when in truth it was only one secret, one skeleton, that plagues me into nightmares. One problem, miniscule in my opinion, was to blame for every argument, every angry glare, that took place while we were together. This hurt me more than I ever dared admit, for I had always tried to keep my past exactly there: in the past. But no matter how hard I tried, The Secret always came back to haunt me.
She didn't like this. She hated it, in fact, that I couldn't confide in her. I believe that my lack of trust in her hurt her as well, but I could never tell, for her bright, beautiful grins hid all that she was thinking. I think that, perhaps, if we revealed our thoughts more and discussed our emotions, we would have lasted longer. Though, really, nothing could ever account for her cheating on me like she did. I merely like to believe that our relationship could have been saved. I love her just that much, that even now I'm willing to create excuses on her behalf.
Nevertheless, with her, my girlfriend, my lover, my beautiful soul-keeper, I was submissive in a way that I loathed myself for my weakness. I fought, of course I fought; I kicked and bucked and twisted my body as to throw her off of me. She was far too strong, though, and held me down effortlessly, her entire weight supported on my wrists where they were pressed into the mattress so that my hands turned numb. After a while I couldn't help but want to give in and fall to my knees at her command; she made submission seem almost beautiful, definitely peaceful. She made it seem as though, in surrendering to her, I will be both safe and taken care of underneath her wing. Besides, the fight in me had totally worn out by then; I was so emotionally exhausted that I didn't have a choice on whether I wanted to give up or not.
Before her, however, I was both dominant and in control. I took initiative, holding my significant others' chins hard enough to bruise and planting aggressive kisses on their pliant lips. I bit their sensitive necks and tugged their willing bodies flush against mine, and even with the guys I held a certain dominance, taking more than I gave back. Especially with my boyfriends, what I say went, and I somehow managed to do this without damaging their egos or seeming cold and demanding. All I had to do was toss over a corky smile, eyebrow half-raised, and they followed me to the end of the world. They loved me so; it was almost sweet the way they looked up at me with stars in their eyes, as though I were their one and only, their Aphrodite. I controlled them; instead of being the newly sea-bathed Venus, who was untouched and angelic, I was all the wickedness and deceit that hid inside the goddess's head, masked by a pretty face.
Perhaps this is why with my third girlfriend—for the female populace of my dating history is what actually mattered to me, never the boys, who were hopelessly naïve—reined control. Perhaps this is why I couldn't top her, and she became my Master, my keeper, my savior. Perhaps, just perhaps, this is why she hurt me instead of the other way around.
She was my first heartbreak, that much is established. Before she ever came into the picture my broken lovers paved the ground beneath my boot-clad feet like the cobblestones in the French Quarter. Not that I am, or ever was, proud of this; it was merely fact, and I cannot deny it that I hurt everyone who ever learned to love me.
With my first girlfriend, my one and only Baby Girl, my beautifully tainted yet sweetly pure Chinadoll, I was more than her significant other, but her best friend as well. We loved each other before we ever came to be one, smiling shyly, so inexperienced, pretending to be innocent when our hearts and souls were old and sage. I was like Spanish moss, however; I loved her so much I killed her spirit, sucking up her affections and bubbly charm until all that was left behind was the cold, bitter husk of the girl I learned to adore. Even now my guilt eats away at me for the way I crushed her. I should have been the one to never hurt her, to save her, to protect her, yet I did exactly the opposite.
Her heart now sits on display in the dark recesses of my mind, where the demons point and laugh at the utter trust she bestowed upon me. A single diamond engagement ring with a broken white-gold band—symbolizing the marriage of our souls and the divorce of our hearts—sits upon its dusty lid.
As for my second girlfriend, our relationship was different in such a way that was dramatic and almost horrible, and this is why it was remarkable. I liked her because of her physical plainness; I couldn't see anything outwardly special about her, and that appealed to me greatly. However, her soul was interesting, a white rose amidst a tangle of poisonous thorns. We had problems, though, and her jealousy mingled with my rebellion equaled to something disgusting. There were times I hated her more than I loved her, and even when I did love her it was awkward, for my love wasn't whole, wasn't pure, only an extension of my affections whenever she was feeling good.
Her heart now sits in the shadows of my subconscious, to the left and to the back of the heart of my first girlfriend, cobwebs and spiders drifting across the scorching hot glass. The jar is labeled "Pyromania", for that is what loving her was like.
My boyfriends, all three of them—please note that all things in my life happened in clusters of three, or on the third, or relating to any of the multiples of three—were not particularly memorable besides them being so coincidentally alike. I believe that with them I confused friendship with the quality of actual courtship, and this is why I wound up hurting them in the end. They all had a boyish hair-cuts, boyish grins, boyish appearances and boyish attitudes. Musicians, they were: a drummer, a bassist, and a guitarist. This is perhaps the only thing about them that made me genuinely smile.
Their hearts now sit so forsakenly on the shelf of broken dreams as well, the jars huddled together as though for warmth and comfort. They do not touch and never will, however, for each of the boys was a homophobe and even the scantest amount of physical contact among other males will mean their ultimate ruin. That is, in their opinion.
My most recent girlfriend, the one that crushed me so horribly and who as my previous lovers shall remain nameless, was all callous and no tenderness, and this was what I loved about her. I loved that she didn't care about hurting me physically, and that a busted bloody lip excited her rather than worried her. Emotionally, she told me that she cared, that it would kill her to hurt me, but even as she whispered this so lovingly in my ear I knew better than to believe her. I was skilled at the trade of heartbreaking; I knew the words and actions a predator would play out to gain trust. And a predator this girlfriend was, for in the end I did not have her heart on that aged shelf, but she did have mine, just one more trinket among dozens of others to decorate her mind.
Even now, I do not regret loving her, or allowing her the one thing in which she can never give back and I will never have again: my virginity. Though it hurts that I gave her so much of me—with the exception of my past, which will always remain mine and mine alone, for nobody deserves to hear what I went through as a child, no matter how much I love them—I do not wish to take some of my affections back. As I stated earlier, I love her just that much, that no matter what the extent of the pain she had and will cast upon me so wantonly, I will joyfully, breathlessly, and with the entirety of my being, go through it all over again.
Maybe I'm just stupid, or maybe I'm hopeless, or both, but I cannot renounce anything in which brings me happiness, no matter how much I wind up hurt in the end. And this last girlfriend, she did indeed make me content. She made me smile, no mask, no lie; even in submission I could not complain. Even in heartbreak I could not hate. I loved her, and I still love her. Is that so wrong?
By Gypsy Starr Vidal,
9th grade, Burbank High School
Completed March 20, 2005
This short story is both fact and fiction. While the majority of the happenings portrayed are truthful, I have dramatized the relationship with my third girlfriend, but nothing more. Also, at the time of my writing this, my third girlfriend and I still remain together, so the insinuation of unfaithfulness on her part is but a figment of my imagination.
She hasn't cheated on me, though I honestly suspect that she will once she gets bored with me, for that is the type of person she is. However, please note now that I hold no bitterness or jealousy dealing with my suspicions. If she cheats on me, then she does; it's about time somebody broke my heart. The writer in me, who is twisted, dark, and curious, feels that heartbreak will be an interesting experience. Imagine the stories I will be able to conjure then!