Page 8 of Heart Sick

There is only one thing I can do to make it go away.

Blindly reaching for the pen, I violently stab it into my chest, scissoring it along the fresh wound. Blood coats me and the warmth fills me with such joy. I dig my fingers into the wound, desperate to pull out the heart with my bare hands.

“Dutch, no, please no. Please, God, no!” My mom’s guttural sobs are the perfect transition into a somber chord.

I can hear it loudly. It’s beautiful and I never want it to end.

But when his heart suddenly stops, the hollow echo ceasing to deafen me, I realize that is what I need to finish this masterpiece. This foreign alien within my chest needs to stop beating for me to exist.

Ironic, this was supposed to save me, but it looks like I am beyond saving.

DC al Coda…

“Do you want me to get the car?”

Voices echo around me, but I don’t really hear them. I can’t. All I can focus on is the mahogany coffin in front of me because inside it is my son.

I think the service was beautiful. I don’t know for certain as it felt like I was viewing it through the eyes of a stranger. How can I accept this reality, a reality where Misha doesn’t exist?

A sob gets caught in my throat and fresh tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t think they’ll ever stop.

Joy organized this simple, yet tasteful funeral for Misha. He wouldn’t want a fuss. It didn’t surprise me the chapel was overflowing with people. Everyone loved Misha. His friends gave a beautiful account of who my son was.

He touched so many people. But now, he won’t be able to touch anybody ever again because he’s inside that fucking coffin. And it’s my fault. I should have been in that car, not him. I should have told him to stay home and get the medication in the morning. It was so wet and cold out. He should have stayed home.

I measure my breaths as I know I’m on the cusp of hyperventilating—again.

When I was asked if Misha’s wishes were to be buried or cremated, I answered neither, as his wishes were to be alive and well. But as that will never be an option ever again, I decided for cremation as the only way to hug my son from here on in will be in the white ceramic vase I chose his ashes to be in.

I thump my clenched fists against my legs, angered life would be such a cruel, sadistic bitch. It gave me a son I loved with everything I was, only for him to be taken away before he even got the chance to live.

The day Misha died, I died too, and this person now, is just a shell of her former self as I will never heal. I don’t want to as life has lost all meaning for me. I have nothing to live for anymore.

Joy has been a great support. She has taken on the burden of organizing all of this because all I want to do is close the curtains, lie in bed, and sleep away this pain. But I doubt it’ll ever go away.

“People will be arriving at my house for the wake, sweetie. Are you ready to go?”

Looking at the coffin, I feel myself about to break and it’s not going to be pretty. “Can you take me home?”

“Of course, but do you think that’s a good idea? You shouldn’t be alone.”

“That’s all I want to be. Please take me home.”

I know this is highly impolite to not attend my son’s wake, but the thought of watching people eating, talking and…breathing twists my stomach into knots. If I am on the verge of a messy breakdown, I prefer it to be alone, and not with people looking at me with those faces filled with pity.

I don’t want their pity. I just want my son.

Joy eventually agrees to take me home as she knows my mind is made up. Just as we are about to exit the chapel, Trista, Misha’s girlfriend, meets us at the door. She throws her arms around me, sobbing into my shoulder.

I stand rigid because she was only dating Misha for six months. What right does she have to cry? But I know this is just my grief talking. But I can’t help but feel numb to this all.

“I am so so-sorry,” she cries loudly.

“Thank you.” It’s all I can muster, as I am not here to console anyone. No one understands the loss of a mother losing her child.

“We were talking about getting a place together. And we often spoke about the future. He wanted to have a big family. We had so many plans. But now…now he’s gone.”

Every part of my body begins to scorch. I envision pushing Trista off me and slamming her lovely face into the stone wall—over and over again. Or better still, ramming her head through the stained glass window and seeing it shatter around her. It would rain so many pretty colors, interspersed with her blood.

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