My Red Heart

Inspired by My Life Story

The Author:

Brandon J. Torres

Special thanks to:

those who were left...

Dedicated to My Broken Heart

"The saddest end to a relationship is one where you have to break up with somebody when you're still in love with them. It sounds bizarre but it happens, because the truth is, as powerful and as thrilling as it may be, being in love doesn't mean you're happy. You can continue to love someone even after they've hurt you, but you know deep inside that it won't ever be the same again." - Unknown

January 4th, 2017

It felt as if a needle had sucked the very existence out of me. I remember my hands were aching with pain. My legs were numb and my brain was drained. I had spent the past 8 hours in front of a computer screen writing "My Blue Heart". By the 8th hour I was finished, to be honest I don't remember writing it, time had gone by so fast and before I could look outside my window I realized it was already dark. I couldn't see the moon that night. It was unfortunate because at that time I needed to gaze upon something beautiful. Anything would do, but not even the moon would care to help so how could I expect anything at this point. I stood up from my chair but my eyes were half shut while I tried to make my way to the kitchen. Upon writing my first book, I had not eaten nor taken a sip of anything. I was so hungry and thirsty, but those two were the least of my concerns. I made myself my favorite snack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, along with a glass of milk. I carried both to my room and sat back down in front of this half lit screen and tried to watch something funny on YouTube to make me laugh. I took a bite out of my sandwich and for the first time in my life, food had lost its taste. The milk was absolutely flavorless. It was probably the most depressing dinner I've ever had. I never thought it would come to this point, the point of everything being black and white, and food losing its taste. It never occurred to me that this would be the case for a while. The only time I felt happy was when I would write and reminisce about what I once had and now lost. It gave me a sense of hope that one day things would get better. I knew that it would take time, but I was willing to do anything, I just needed that one chance to do so. The funny thing, is that I don't write, like, I don't like writing. I also hate reading, it's something I was never good at and I never had the motivation to practice or improve. Especially writing, but I think when trying to cope with something, it gave me a glimpse of hope. It allowed me to remember the times in my life were I was really happy. That a special someone in my life could give me so much happiness that it bled everywhere I went. Regardless of where I was or how bad of a day I had, remembering her gave me a reason to be happy. Now that she's gone, the only thing I had left to remember her by was through writing. The one thing I didn't like doing would be the one thing that made me feel normal again. Little did I know that today would be the last day I would ever write about her. What's funny is that the reason I wrote part one in the first place was because at school that day, I tried talking to her for the first time after things had ended. I thought it would be easy, I was wrong. I remember walking up to her, "Brooke." She looked at me as if I was a stranger. I called her name a second time, "Look, I know you're upset and very angry with me but please can we talk about this?" I asked. She didn't say a word, and walked away. I was devastated. I watched her walk away. Time had fast-forwarded so fast I didn't think I would be able to keep up with it. I had a few more classes left of school, but I ended up leaving right after this event had taken place. I didn't want to live, pain overtook me like a tsunami wave, and I couldn't hold on to anything. I started my car and tried my best to drive on home. Every minute that passed by felt like pieces of myself was being torn out right out of me, over and over. So, I tried cheering myself up with some music. I never thought I would say this but, the music I listened to, the music I once loved and adored, I hated. The one thing I thought that could save me in this fucked up time was gone. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and others couldn't even save me. I got home and felt sick to my stomach, it felt like the earth was spinning and I was trying my best to keep balance. I ran up to my room, sat in front of the computer, and just wrote. At first I thought it was stupid, writing about my pain and feelings. In what world would doing this help me? But as time flew by I realized it was helping me. I was on a sinking boat with a life raft sitting beside me, but I was too stubborn to use it. I wouldn't use it until I reached my breaking point, but it was then, and only then, that I would use it. Writing about her was like that life raft. I didn't know that it would keep me safe in the midst of having no hope and no happiness. At the time, "My Blue Heart" was going to be a very long letter to her. But why would someone take the time to read something about someone they hate and want to forget about, it wouldn't make sense. Then, I had the idea of making it into a book, and then maybe she would read it. And that's exactly what I did. Was it a good idea? At the time it seemed like it was my only hope, and it was. Thus "My Blue Heart" was born.