Can you die of a broken heart?
Does it happen right away,
In a lightning flash where your heart is broken
And useless
And refuses to give you another beat because it has given up.
Or,
Does it let you die, slowly, by inches,
A little part of you dying day by day,
Until there is no chance anymore?
There is no chance for us-for me-beyond this point. It is finished. I commend the shell of my spirit and allow my body to fall into dust.
I had dared to dream, to build us castles of hope, where we would live. She would have been my queen. And my spell would have been broken. And we would have been happy.
And my soul would not be deadened by her loss.
It is all I can do to breathe. To keep the flame of my heart alite. But she does not come back to me.
Centuries, seconds, years, moments all pass before me. I hope and yearn and die.
A dark voice speaks inside my soul "She has forgotten you, ugly one. Some pretty man has wooed and won her. You have lost, your chance has passed. You are to be a monster forever. You are no more but a gargoyle, who kept a pretty linnet in a cage. You let her out when she begged and thus have lost her. Fool!"
I cannot take the pain. There is a gaping gash in my soul, bleeding from when she left me. If I could but have her back, I would be the most caring, kindest of all men…Beasts. I would attend to her every need, thought, desire. Even if I was never to be her lover, even if I was never destined to be a man again.
But perhaps it is best, then. She was never wholly happy here, with me, in this shimmering ivory construct. She will be happier with her family, with the pretty young man with the smooth voice and clever tongue. She will be happy; I will let her be happier.
But I shall die inside, for there is no living without her.
The question remains: can you die of a broken heart, whether it be by inches or in a heartbeat? I shall find this out,
But my passing will be sweeter, this knowing she is at peace.
I close my eyes, imagining the sound of her exuberant footsteps pattering in the hall, the quiet way she swings open the door, her collecting of self before she crosses the room to me. She even says my name one, something I cannot place-concern, shock, sorrow-in her bell-like voice. "Beast?"
How I would love it if she would take me into her arms, tell me that she is at peace, give me a last farewell. But no, she would be anguished. And she would weep. And that would be worse than if she was far away laughing in a merry meadow with her family and beau.
Her heartbreak is even more aching than my own.
"Oh, Beast," she sobs, "I came back to you, now you come back to me." There is something so primal about her tears, like her soul is tearing into two.
"I love you," she whispers, stricken.
Something wet hits my face and I awaken.
She is there, torn, and stained, and wet with tears.
And she is real.
And my heart stops.
But not from heartbreak.
Instead,
From joy.
And we are broken no more;
We
Are
Whole.
