Fractured Love.

The exhaustion from fighting against what is expected of me will only cause me to break in the long term. Dean reminded himself. Although, this was his fifth time repeating this reminder to himself, with no resolution.

Instead, he wrote it down. Pen to paper. Thought to lyric. That's the process of self-healing he had always been accustomed to. Words have meaning yet no effect on his outlook in life. Dean was a musician, therefore, singing what he wants to be his truth is the only outcome to a better day he’ll be able to conceive in this lifetime.

“Words have meaning.” He slurred. Grabbing the bottle of whisky by the neck, Dean guzzled down the remainder of the one-litre bottle he’d spent the weekend drinking.

Running his hands down his thick brown beard, causing droplets of whisky to sprinkle across an open notepad. Dean's eyes shift down, away from the mirror opposite him at his desk. Disappointment in himself takes over.

Nothing to show. I have nothing to show.

A knock on the door pulls Dean out of his mental lecture.

“Come in,” Dean says in a low stern voice without turning in the direction of the person walking in through his back door, as he knows exactly who it is. Ben, Deans best friend walks in, wearing his usual attire of gym clothing along with his worried expression that he tends to wear on this specific date.

“You shouldn't be drinking.” Usually, Ben’s words flow through vibrations that are laced with disapproval when it comes to the consumption of alcohol. Especially since Ben believes our body is a temple, living day by day to ensure he embodies the phrase as a well-known nutritionist and personal trainer. Although, when it comes to Dean, his tone is solely concern- sincere concern for his friend and how he’s coping.

“I have a deadline and this-” Picking up the bottle of whisky he takes another sip. “-is what will get me to meet it.”

Releasing a slow exhale of breath through his nose, Ben leans down and sits on the arm of an armchair. “When’s your deadline due?”

“Two days,” Dean said flatly.

There are a few minutes of silence. Ben contemplates what to say to his friend. Whether to give optimistic advice or to stay for the fallout if Dean doesn’t make the deadline his music label has given him.

After a two-year break from music, Dean was given an ultimatum. Release an album within the next six months or he’d be dropped.

“Maybe write about how you truly feel, right now. Just for today...just to set free whatever you’re thinking. And, whether you decide to send it to the label is up to you.”

Perhaps he’s right. I can’t focus so why not release what it is that’s holding me back. Dean arched his brow and leaned back into his chair.

Ben continues. “Today is a difficult day for you. Understandably, your mind is elsewhere. Perhaps set free those blocks.”

“OK.” Dean breathes out. Ben nods, rising to his feet. “I’ll leave my phone on loud. Don’t hesitate to call.”

Dean bluntly interrupts, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

The truth is he knows that if he ever did need Ben, he’d be there. Sometimes the reassurance that you’re not entirely alone is enough for anyone to feel as though they can keep going.

Locking the door behind Ben. Dean drags his feet with each step as he walks over to the cabinet positioned above the sink, better known to him as to where he stores his ‘personal’ alcohol. For someone that's found the consumption of alcohol to be a coping mechanism to pretty much surviving every day Dean has distinguished two separate places to store his ‘personal’ and ‘guest’ alcohol.

The sole factors that differentiate the two are the ‘guest’ alcohol are brands of alcohol he doesn’t drink so will kindly offer out to guests if they were to visit while he enjoys his stash.

Taking a bottle of monkey shoulder, pouring three quarters into his whisky glass, Dean takes a seat back behind his desk.

Opening a fresh page in his notebook, he writes down the date.

January 1st 2018.

Today marks the day of a fresh start for many. For Dean today marks the day of three memories, three different occurrences that now fuse, becoming a day that Dean dreads the most. If a single day could be described through a feeling, it would be by an unsettling pain in the pit of his stomach that occasionally travels upwards and exits in the form of vomit.

Closing his eyes, he gulps down a mouthful of his drink. An ache in his chest prompts him to snap his eyes open. Taking in a heavy inhale through in his nose, Dean picks up his pen, exhaling through his mouth as he writes down a second date.

January 1st 1990.

A day described as ‘full of sunshine' despite the usual rainy English weather according to Dean’s mum, Beatrice. She used those three words to describe the day she gave birth to her only child because that’s what he became to her, her ‘sunshine.’

Memories of his mum flood his thoughts, her smile, her laugh, her scent. Dean always found comfort in how her choice in perfume remained the same throughout his childhood, the familiarity of how she smelt brought him comfort as her appearance would- did change.

She’d been sixteen. Dean half-laughed at the idea of having a child at that age. He’d known from a young age that both he and his mum grew up together.

Dean scribbles down on a clean page, I was only young but so were you. Then takes another swig of his drink.

The happy memories he has of his mum quickly become overshadowed. Left in a dark corner of his mind, hidden away by the thought of him. Dean continues to write down underneath, Day by day we'll make it, me and you as the memory of his father disrupts his thoughts of his mum.

Taking another sip of his drink, Dean takes in a steady breath, with the hope of returning to her. Happier times immediately become forgotten when the sadder of memories gain control over every part of Dean.

Rendered at a loss to remembering those happier times, Dean writes down the memories that are now circulating, turning his hurt to anger.

Fake smiles of happiness, you'd force through

Broken pieces you'd fix for new

Early bedtime stories to protect me from what I already knew

A sting in his eyes, the heat of his cheek flares against the heat of his tears. Coughing out a cry, Dean drops the pen, leaning back into his chair, running his hand over his face.

Raising his hand to his temple, circling his fingers above his eyebrow in small movements, Dean breathes out in a low voice, “But I’ll never blame you.” And he meant it. He’d never blame his mum, to him she was a victim. She’d been conditioned to believe by his father and most of her family and friends that if she’d ever considered leaving the consequences would only be more dangerous than if she decided to stay. So that’s exactly what she had decided to do, stay.

I can't do this. His mind argues. "I need to." His words retaliate. Dean picks up his pen.

His hold on us is all you knew to exist

We'd have to survive the life we want to resist

Tapping the pen against the desk, Dean continues to control his breathing in the hopes it will calm the sudden red of anger his feeling as what tends to follow is the destruction of everything in sight.

His father hasn’t been a passing thought for many years. No need to think about the gun if the bullet is still inside the person. Dean would joke with his therapist when asked how he felt toward his father. When the therapist would ask Dean what he meant, Dean would smile and say, "You wouldn't bother to look for the gun if a person was still bleeding out from their wound.” His comment didn’t make sense to anyone but him.

The therapist practice believes the root of the trauma is what needs to be addressed whereas Dean believed there was no use in remembering his father. He’d rather focus on overcoming the pain he has been left to survive with.

January 1st 2008.

The route to his pain. A day that signified Dean becoming an adult, officially, legally. Thereby, the day where Dean could officially take care of his mum, if she’d let him. They’d finally be able to be free.

Writing in bold. HANGING ON TO HOPE THAT WE’D GET THROUGH.

A birthday wish meant more than a gift to Dean, it meant hope. He didn’t need artificial enjoyment, he needed true happiness.

Happiness, meant freedom.

It was us, three

“You had no choice.” Dean cries out. The tremble in his hand from trying to control his tears, streaming down his cheek, creating wet spots on his notepad, leaves Dean’s writing to be unreadable to someone else.

It HAD to be, us three

You had no choice, it had to be

This way for him to agree, for you to breathe

“For you to breathe.” Swallowing hard, He recalls the third date.

January 1st 2009.

A day remembered as the day Dean’s grief overpowered his willingness to continue without her, without the only person that truly loved him. A day full of “You’re not alone.” Being said by many nonetheless, there was no us in how he felt so how else was he supposed to feel because all he did feel was completely numb to the want or need for support.

Me. That’s all he knew.

“Me.” He mouthed, writing down the way it had to be.

It had to be us three

Until it was just me.

January 1st now belongs to three memories;

Deans' birthday.

Deans' mum’s death.

Dean hospitalised.

Misery is a dangerous feeling to carry day to day, mixed with self-hate and being an alcoholic could be deathly. Yet, Dean lives out another year, spending another birthday to his surprise alive in a trance to his suffering.

But, alive.

His mum’s death was never explained to his satisfaction. “She fell.” The police explained to a distraught Dean when arriving home in the early morning of his eighteenth birthday after spending New Year's Eve out with his friends. “She must’ve slipped.” His father shrugged.

Dean had pleaded with his mum before leaving. “It can be us now. I’m old enough for us to leave, no questions asked.”

“Darling.” She’d said, stroking his cheek with sympathetic eyes that were filled with tears. “I’d like that.”

Smiling back, Dean hugged his mother, holding her close, unbeknown to him, for the last time. “It’ll be nice.” He repeated, feeling her grin widen against his cheek.

Dean smiles faintly at the memory of what his mum would call him.

“My darling” you'd say to me

“You'll always have me. We're family.”

Needing some fresh air. Dean steps out into his back garden. Sitting on a pile of logs he’d collected over the summer to put in the fireplace through winter.

Living in the countryside has its perks, especially to Dean’s satisfaction. Solitude wasn't an easy find in any town or city whether he lived alone or with others.

Miles between neighbours, acres of land for him to use as a distraction when all else fails became addictive. He’d spent the summer refurbing the interior and exterior of his home and replanting the garden.

In the corner of his eye, he notices something white beside him. Turning his head, Dean mouth that had been in a straight-line curves into a small smile at the sight of a white feather.

The sound of wings flapping behind him sent Dean to his feet.

Perched on his wooden garden table was a white owl.

A tightness in his chest caused him to gasp for a breath he hadn’t realised he'd been holding in. The sound of a motorbike passing by takes Dean attention away, when it returns to the table, the owl is gone. But the warmth he felt in his chest at that moment gave Dean the drive he needed.

Looking up at the stars sprinkled all over the deep blue night sky before walking back inside, Dean whispered. “I miss you.”

A disconnect from his body is how he felt, with every step, it’s ashough a weight had been lifted, a shift in atmosphere internally had occurred. A rope had been loosened around him. He could breathe for air rather than gasp for a breath.

Easing back into his seat, he'd found the urge to continue to write. He’d found his muse

After Three hours. Pen to paper, Thought to lyric. He'd completed his song.

Opening up an email to send to the producer, with the attachment Fractured love and the lyrics to his newest song that he made a point of mentioning he’d record with or without them.

Before closing the screen and hitting send, Dean reads through what he’d written one final time.

Fractured love

I was only young but so were you

Hanging on to hope that we’d get through

Day by day we'll make it, me and you

Waiting to escape despite having no strength to

Truth of the matter is you'd never run

Far from his grip

His hold on us is all you knew to exist

We'd have to survive the life we want to resist

Whispers of promises that I wished could come true

Fake smiles of happiness, you'd force through

Broken pieces you'd fix for new

Early bedtime stories to protect me from what I already knew

But I’ll never blame you

Echoed sadness filled the halls

Fractured love broke what’s ours

Echoed sadness filled the halls

Fractured love broke what’s ours

I never knew why you'd stay for me

Truth of the matter

It had to be, us three

You had no choice, it had to be

This way for him to agree, for you to breathe

“My darling” you'd say to me

“you'll always have me. We're family.”

You’d cry to me, closing your eyes you'd pray and plead

We've got each other, that’s all we need

Whispers of promises that I wished could come true

Fake smiles of happiness, you'd force through

Broken pieces you'd fix for new

Early bedtime stories to protect me from what I already knew

But I’ll never blame you

Echoed sadness filled the halls

Fractured love broke what’s ours

Echoed sadness filled the halls

Fractured love broke what’s ours

I never knew why you'd stay for me

Truth of the matter

It had to be, us three

It had to be us three

It had to be us three

Until it was just me.

Send.

The end.