The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

I keep working. I keep going. I keep myself busy to the point of exhaustion, because if I don’t burn out… I’ll burn away. And that seems infinitely worse.

I’m fine. Such simple yet destructive words.

“It was harsh.” His eyes finally fall on me. “Harsh or honest?” The question gives me pause. Maybe he’s right. Maybe some people need the kind of honesty that sucker-punches you in the gut and steals your breath. The kind that enrages you. Offends you, even. Until you put aside your ego and truly listen.

It’s almost as if her demons are interrogating mine and comparing notes.

“All broken things can be fixed. The hard part is deciding that they’re worth fixing.”

I rip my arm away. “Don’t do that.” “I’m just—” “I don’t like to be touched.” She swallows, her eyelashes fanning across her cheekbones as she blinks up at me. “You don’t like it, or you’re not used to it?” How about this: the one person in the world who was supposed to care for me, love me, protect me… abused the fuck out of me. Instead of hugs, I got hot cigarette butts to my skin, covering me in hideous scars. Instead of cuddles, I got a leather belt across my face. Instead of kisses, I got broken bones. And when I wasn’t being beaten down until I went numb, I was neglected. Locked inside a dark closet with only my imaginary friend to keep me company. I feared touch. But all I say is, “Both.”

“No one has nothing.” “That’s a bullshit, privileged answer.”

Jesus, who am I? It must be the cupcakes. She laced them with her happy sunshine juice.

“Jesus.” I wince as I follow his gaze. “I wish I had a cool story—a meteor shower, maybe a mysterious transient living in my ceilings. But my brother says it’s just a leaky pipe.” Parker spares me a curious glance. “Leaky pipe sounds less life-threatening.” “Not a cool story, though,” I breeze, flicking my finger at him. He presses his lips together, and I choose to believe he’s holding back a smile.

I’m angry in that moment. Violently angry. I’m furious at every unfit woman in the world who claims the title of “mother” when they are anything but. They are not a guidance or warmth or nurturing hug. They’re a disease. They infect vulnerable, innocent children, poisoning them with untruths and cruel delusions, branding them with scars they will carry forever. Parker’s mother. Amelia’s mother. Even Charlie’s mother, with her wicked words and sharp tongue, after she had once told me that I was like a daughter to her. I’m angry in that moment, I’m so angry at mothers like that, but I’m also grateful. I’m immensely grateful for mine.

We’re storytellers, you and me. My story has come to an end, but yours is just beginning. I know you’ll take good care of Nutmeg. She doesn’t like her booties, but she loves the sun. Amelia

We’re storytellers, you and me. Oh, Amelia. If only she knew… she had so many stories left to tell.

“You can say his name, West. The only thing worse than being reminded that he's gone is pretending that he never existed.”

“The loudest love is wordless.”

Maybe it’s time to fucking fight. I’m just not sure how to fight for something so goddamn important. I don’t know what weapons to wield, or how much armor to possess. Do I go at her all bare bones and bleeding heart? On my knees, pleading and shaking, defenseless, with the blade of a dagger to my chest? Stick it in, Melody. Twist it deep. What’s one more scar?