Glass And Peace

Broken

I tried staying, Dan, it didn't work. You broke my heart before, remember? I just thought I had got all the pieces back together, made it usable again, was figuring out how it worked. We were making it work again, together. At least I thought we were. But no, you had another "mid-life crisis". You had to - what did the counsellor call it - "act out" again. Fancy words for something as simple as hurting me again. Betrayal, Dan, that's what we agreed it was. A breach of our vows, the promises you made. Not just the vows you made to me in a lavender-scented church full of witnesses fourteen years ago, but the brand new promises last fucking year Dan. Nine - wait, no - seven months ago. Two hundred days, Dan, since we poured out our grievances, confessed our sins and owned our failings. I dreaded every meeting, Dan, every single one was pure torture. But I did it, for us, Dan, to fix our fragile marriage and to mend my broken heart. I did it for me and you, because what we have... What we had was worth saving. I sat every Tuesday night in that awful, puke-green room that smelt of stale tobacco and cheap coffee with that barmy, beige-jumpered bint and listened to you recount all my failings as a wife, Dan. All the reasons it was my fault you were getting your kicks in a digital brothel with some legs and lips half my age, and I took it all in though it cut me to pieces, and I'd sob into the headrest all the way home knowing we would go back for more next week because I thought it was helping, it was worth it, you were getting better and we would come out the other side a marriage again. And finally the odd bint said we were healed, and for a moment I believed her, believed our marriage was fixed. But guess what, Dan? She was wrong. So very, stupidly, predictably wrong. Because here we are again. I just got my heart fixed, Dan. It was working again. Still a bit weak, it often skipped a little when you were working late, missed a beat or two when you got a text message. But it was healing nicely because I had my Dan back. You were thoughtful, relaxed, productive. You seemed happy, which made me happy. I started to trust you and you were worthy of my trust. It was like before, like the good times. Like Zanzibar or Skye.

Then you reached into my chest, Dan, and you took tight hold of my newly-mended heart and you broke it again. Crushed it into little pieces. It was easy, I know, because the fault lines were still there from last time. It was still fragile, still very delicate. Aren't everyone's fragile, Dan, once they've been broken once? You can repair cracked glass but it's never as strong again, is it? You can mend it with glue and laminate it so the cracks are invisible but the strength has all gone so that one blow and crash! It's in pieces again. How many times can we do this, Dan? Until the repairs are no longer invisible, the cracks and the glue used to close them must eventually become obvious. What then? I can't let that happen, Dan. The girls are growing up. The fault lines won't stay invisible to them for long. They will show on my face, on your face, in our embraces - or lack of - in our sharp words, our dark silences. The jagged edges of my broken heart will be impossible to dull, Dan. They will cut us to pieces, you, me, the girls. I'll go to my parents house. Just till we sort something out.