Broken Heart Syndrome
Petite, with her proportions usually in check, the past 8 weeks had taken its toll. Her cheeks were sunken and her hazel eyes appeared larger. Clavicles protruded in an unhealthy manner, and her mothers’ generous size pasta dishes stacked high in her fridge. What a waste. She shifted uncomfortably as she felt the hollow alcove that her lovers’ body had left; a cruel reminder that he was once there.
She slowly pulled her long limbs over the edge of the bed. As she rose, she became aware that she was telling herself to walk one step in front of the other. Like a naive foal, striving to find purpose on the earth, she stumbled from her bed. The floorboards creaked under her feet and she felt the grit of sand between her toes. Household duties had been neglected for some time now.
Reaching the bathroom with listless steps, she stopped in front of the mirror and cracked the silence with meek words.
“Is this what dying is?” she asked her reflection, trying to find some kind of familiarity with the woman staring blankly at her.
As the words left her mouth, an overwhelming breath forced its way down deep into her lungs. She waited for the release, but it never came. Her small vanity was suddenly her only support as the floral wallpaper began to swim around her like the centerpiece of a carousel she was not able to get off.
She could still hear the birds singing outside, but they now resonated with an ear-piercing urgency that made her fearful. As her palms began to sweat, her grip on the cold basin was defeated. There was nowhere else for her to go but down. She felt her body descend, and the words rang through her mind. “Is this what dying is?”