My bedroom back at home has no windows so it is always pitch black unless I have the lights on. I think that room was supposed to be a storage unit for the house but my mom had other ideas. What a heartbreak. She looked at the cold, dump, dark room and was like, “Yeap, my son is gonna be sleeping here.”. I don’t really blame her because growing up I really liked Batman. I’d wrap a bed sheet around my neck and pretend it is a cape. Then I’d run around the house yelling “I’m Batman.” . I think that kind of played a role in me being given a room without windows as my bedroom because well, Batman dwells in a cave.

I know you’re probably wondering to yourself ‘The title of this article is Heartbreak but this guy is yapping about a dark bedroom and his mommy issues.’

Just hold on, it will all make sense in a few. See, it was in that room that I experienced heartbreak for the first time in my life. It wasn’t at all like the way movies or music portray it. For me, there wasn’t a moment where I stared out a car window as it rained while listening to sad music and thinking about a love lost. Neither did I feel inspired to start writing poetry about the sad part of love where you have to watch it fade away. Nope, none of that happened to me.

I Woke up one day in that dark room at 6am, I hadn’t really slept at all that night because I was worried. I ‘d been dating this gorgeous girl for three years during which I was young and in love. Something beautiful in itself but with it came anxiety for not receiving a text from my girlfriend the whole of the previous day. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal . However prior to that moment she and I had never failed to exchange a text for the entirety of the time we dated. Save for this one time when I had chronic diarrhoea which is something that I don’t feel like getting into right now.

Anyway, I picked up my phone after staring into the darkness of my bat cave and sure enough there were texts from her. I breathed a sigh of relief . At least she is okay but when I opened the texts I was in for a really big surprise.

She had sent three texts; the first said that she had hooked up with another guy after getting drunk. It was painful reading that text, because I knew it was over. The years of dating, the promises, the late night chats, the exchanging of secrets, talking about our wedding, how our kids would look like and the sex, oh God the sex. It was all over, all of it came to an end just like that. The first text made me feel like a being stuck in a state of limbo. I was not sure if I was dreaming or if I was awake. It didn’t feel real.

The second text was a paragraph that had a lot of “Sorry” written all over it. She was trying to make me feel better which I found adorable for some reason at that time. However, the adorable feeling didn’t last because I begun feeling like a shattered plate. She had smashed me on the ground and stared at my broken pieces and said “Sorry.” As if that would fix me. As if all those broken pieces will levitate and stick together and the plate would be whole again. All because she said the magic word that is “Sorry.” That’s when the sadness started enveloping me. This was because like a broken plate I knew exactly what was next, I was destined for the trash can.

The third text was her calling herself a slut because of what she did and this made me angry. I was the one who was supposed to be calling her a slut. I mean, she was insulting herself and sucking the juice out of any pleasure I would have amassed from insulting her. It is really pointless insulting someone who’s just going to agree with you.

After reading those texts repeatedly I turned off my phone and just sat there in the darkness of my room. It would have been the perfect time to cry but that just felt cliché’ so I didn’t do it. There were so many emotions and thoughts that flooded my entire being. Up until now I can’t pin point exactly what I was thinking about in that dark room. What I do remember though is that it was hard to move.

I wanted to get out of that room and just run outside and watch the sunrise and say proudly to myself that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. But I couldn’t move. I also felt like taking a piss but …I …couldn’t ….move.

There is this technique I call ‘Forty Seven’ which I developed in high school to help me overcome tough situations. I lived with this idea that high school is a prison and in movies prisoners always worked out so I used to do fifty sit ups every single day. Guys would walk past my cubicle at night and just find me doing sit ups.

I was fucking obsessed with sit ups. Whenever I did it, it felt easy and smooth until I reached the forty seventh sit up. I’d then feel as if my spine and intestines are interlacing . I would feel this horrible pain as if my diaphragm and kidneys are trying to have sex within me.

Whenever this happened I’d feel like quitting . Nevertheless I’d tell myself, “It’s just the forty seventh sit up, push yourself past it and finish this.” . I’d literarily push past the pain until I reached fifty sit ups.

As I sat there in that dark room of mine, that was my forty seven. It was difficult and I really needed to pee and I am not going to lie. Part of me was willing to just piss in bed and continue sitting there in my own urine but I told myself that this is just a really big forty seven. It won’t be easy neither would it be fun but I got to push through it and finish this. The part of me that’s a huge asshole was like “What is this hippie bullshit you are talking about? What do you mean by ‘Finish this’?”At that moment I had no certain answer to that question but I jumbled up a reply, “I am going to take this one step a time, I do not know how it will end but I will not give up at forty seven.”

I got out of bed, got out of the dark room and went outside into the sun light and there as I felt that warm glow of the sun I whipped out my penis and took a piss on the front lawn.

By Kyalo Junior a.k.a Theezy