Freedom Blooming

Don’t look at the girl with the broken heart. Her eyes are blank and her hair a mess. A sight for sore eyes as her soul must confess, that she is now alone.

Dahlia felt like the victim in an astoundingly well-painted scene of misery and despair. Her life at that present moment involved all the sure signs of an emotional masterpiece; the rain, the clouds, and the surrounding buildings which crumbled and rotted on the terrible estate. And there she stood also, her own story adding to the secrets within the painting, for she was the epitome of misery.

In the howling wind that was sending the rain hurtling towards her face from under her umbrella, her long skirt billowed out around her bare legs. The outfit choice was, unfortunately, for a reason, and was not just her attempts to be as inappropriate as possible (though she would far prefer to be that sort of woman than the kind who now watched the streets go by). The truth of the matter was, that Dahlia had just been rejected in the cruelest of ways by her long term lover.

They were not by any standards a ‘traditional’ couple, which had led the young girl to believe that her proposal to her boyfriend of four years would be treated as a normal gesture. She had been correct about that, when the man had not even blinked as she dropped to one knee and pulled out the bright gold ring, encrusted with four tiny red rubies. One for each of the years they had been together.

What she had not anticipated, was to have the ring thrown back in her face with a snarl of “Fuck you!” before being shoved out the apartment door roughly by the edge of her jacket.

Don’t believe in those who love, they lie and cheat and sometimes beat, they change the universe with hurt then spin it back with cruel words, forgetting years of beauty to split a delicate heart into thirds.

She knew she should have expected it. Although their love had seemed unbreakable, a bond skin deep which was only being deepened even more as the prospect of marriage slowly drew closer. But neither really wanted to grow up. They wanted to be lovesick teenagers with no arguments or differences, but that couldn’t go on. It was either seal their fate with the metal ring around the finger, or end it all. And she knew he was never one to commit.

He had cheated on her only once, which she had been relieved about during the relationship, but was now disgusted by it. It was with a girl named Jeanette, who had apparently approached him while he was drunk in a bar, and of course he had gone with her; he was drunk! Excuse after excuse littered their long relationship, covered up by long cuddles in front of the television, and nights full of a false passion that they created to stop the guilt of not loving each other enough.

There were rare moments of true beauty between them, when they would be comforted by each other’s words when life got tough, or when they lay in bed on bright mornings, stroking each other’s cheeks and feeling like they really were soulmates. When the sun shone on their relationship, they became a real couple, with kisses and smiles and the true happiness that came with a loving partner.

Their friends and family were unfortunately not fooled.

“He doesn’t even love you! You grimace when you kiss, and frown when the other isn’t watching. You aren’t happy and you can’t hide it from us.”

“Honey, none of us are forcing you to be in a relationship with that... man. If you aren’t happy with him, don’t feel the need to stay with him.”

But the feelings had rooted deeper than she had ever hoped for. The two had taken hands and kept going, on and on for four years of faking and pain.

This isn’t love, this is fantasy. This is the world of fiction and poetry, where together does not exist and where lips must not be kissed. Obsession is key to despair, though your life will never turn pages and end in being fair.

In one half of her mind, she was relieved to be out of the clenching grasps of their difficult situation, to be free from the iron grip of her ‘lover’ and to be an individual once again.

But it wasn’t that simple. The other half of her body screamed for his arms around her shivering frame and his long fingers brushing tears from her flickering eyes. He had such an amazing hug, one that never failed to melt away her worries in the heat and soft padding of his clothes. For that moment, at least.

Was this what being a drug addict was like? Knowing that the addiction was painful and dangerous, and yet craving it desperately for it was the only thing that would keep them sane?

But just like a drug addict might, she knew she would have to find something else to focus on, something to stop the heartache and the burning need within her to just turn around and kiss him until he took her back. Not another boyfriend – oh no, she couldn’t go through that again – but something harmless and time consuming. Spending more time at the bookshop she worked at, a hobby that interested her.

Sighing heavily, Dahlia closed her umbrella and held it by her side. Immediately the rain began to pour down, soaking through her short dark curls and reducing her small white shirt (worn specifically for the proposal) to a sodden mess. She was no longer protected by the dark fabric blocking the hammering droplets, but she was okay. She was free.

Slowly she began her walk down the side of the empty road, her umbrella swinging by her side and a small smile fixed on her lips which she was unable to ride herself of. Free. Free. Free. Her cheek vaguely ached where the wedding ring had made contact quite painfully. She knew there would be nothing more than a fading pink mark, but a huge part of her wished that he’d thrown it harder. That he’d grabbed her and dragged the ring down her cheek until it drew blood in a pouring wave down her face, because at least that way she would have a scar. Something to remember him by, but also something to reassure her that she was away from him, and that it wasn’t all some sort of dream.

A wolf whistle from across the road brought Dahlia back to the present, and she was greeted with the sight of an old, around sixty year old man, dressed in his full builder’s outfit. He was quite pudgy, with his belt not quite keeping his trousers all the way up, and his hair became a rarer sight the further up his head she looked. He was a typical old man, who Dahlia would have once cringed away from and run away down the road.

Not now though. She could do better than that now. With steady ease and not a care in the world, she let her umbrella drop to the floor. Her face broadened into a larger smile, though she was certain the builder could not see the heavy sarcasm laced within it. Then she slowly raised her middle finger to point across the road.

The man stared. Dahlia thought that maybe he had wolf whistled her before, and she hadn’t noticed that it was the same man seeing a completely different reaction, but she didn’t care. She left her umbrella soaking up on the pavement, for she really didn’t care for the thing that much, and carried on walking. Freedom was a beautiful thing.

Whether the air was heating up and warming the droplets of rain, or whether tears were flowing down her cheeks, she did not know. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been tears though, as the bubbling open space in her chest that had previously been filled with storm clouds weighing her down to the floor was making her quite emotional, and though laughing with glee should have been the initial reaction to this feeling, she had never been able to control her emotions quite right.

Her bungalow was a very solitary, quiet place to be. The street occupied only this kind of house, with picket fences and flower beds decorating the front gardens, along with the occasional ornaments and, in the case of one old lady, water fountains.

Dahlia’s whole life would’ve been perfect for the past few years if it weren’t for the looming problem that sat in the back of her mind, eating away at any peacefulness the rest of her life had to offer. Sometimes she would be kneeling down in her back garden with a handful of garden tools to plant some more of her favourite kind of dahlia flowers, and then she’d remember that they had a date that night. A weight would drop onto her chest, then begin to expand within her. The tools would be dropped to the grass, and she’d run inside the house to sit down with her head in her hands and tears flowing down her cheeks. She couldn’t move for hours.

Inside her house were stacks of books. New books for the shop she worked at; old books to read herself; non-fictions and biographies and everything, all stacked up inside her house. She smiled slightly at the stacks she hadn’t touched in over a year as her mind had been preoccupied by other more pressing personal problems than those other worlds that scattered her living space.

With freedom burning through her, she reached for the top of the classic books pile, then dropped down onto her sofa with the book in hand. Turning the musty smelling, rough and calloused item over in her palms, she read the short blurb that had been written for re-release.

A tale of love destroyed by the emotions of a young couple, and a woman hell-bent on getting revenge for her broken heart.

She smiled widely and nearly let out a laugh at the situation printed onto the back of the book. Sounds like my kind of thing.

She opened up the first page, ignoring the way her sopping hair dripped patterns across the aging papers and her eyelashes stuck together with droplets of rain. She ignored the way her clothes were soaking the seat, and the way her house was being buffeted by heavy rainfall in the background. She was in another world, she was gone.

Listen to the new world, she is free. He watches her go from the window up high and falls to his knees with a smile and a sigh. They stare at the emptiness and are greeted with happiness, there is no lonely right now. He attaches the lead and walks out his dog, she curls over pages with glee. Today they are separate, today their strings are cut. Today they are free.