A Heart Can Break!




Is lust so influential that it can not only take over your body with such ease, but have you doing the most unforgiveable thing to your loved one? I don’t know who I am anymore. When I look in the mirror I see a stranger staring back at me. There was a time when I thought I had it all: a good husband, a beautiful baby and a quaint home on the outskirts of Montrose. But what have I done. I mean how could my jealousy peak so high that I go out and cheat on my husband with his own brother? I know what you must think; I’m a whore, right? I wouldn’t blame you if you did, but you’ve got to look at it from my point of view. Don’t condemn me until you know what I went through. This is my story of how compulsion can blind you. I broke the love of my life’s heart. I lied when he confronted me. I fell into the arms of my husband’s brother. I was degraded so much that I forgot who Marie Burton was. And worst of all, I would do it all again.

My name is Marie Burton. I am twenty-seven years old, average build, blue eyes, and short blond hair. Now the basics are out of the way, let me tell you my story. February 1st 2010: 2:07a.m. I watch Ben – my husband – stroll through the front door, and immediately I open my mouth to ask him where he’s been. His shift at the local market finishes at 5pm. Now, the drive from the market to our two bedroom bungalow takes approximately thirty-five minutes, but when he walks in at 2am with a smug grin on his face, the smell of expensive fragrance entwined in his blue shirt, I can’t help but see red. He presses his finger to my open lips. “Don’t start with me,’ he says, before taking his finger away. “I had a few drinks with a few friends and that’s all you need to know.” His face creases as his moist eyes adjust to the dim lighting, shaking his head in the process. “And you know what else?” I stare at him while I feel my heart bubbling up with everything I feel for him. “You don’t satisfy me, and so what if I look at other women, I mean what man doesn’t?” he fixes me with a intensified gaze, a gaze that tells me the words he trickled out of his mouth is deadly serious. I shake my head. I know. I amble out of the living room with nothing but my tears to console me. With every step I push forward, my heart aches. By the time I crawl away to bed, he doesn’t even comfort my distrust. Instead, he strolls into the kitchen as if butter wouldn’t melt, opens the fridge door and sink his mouth into an open tin of lager.


February 2nd 2010: 6:00a.m. The beam from the sun slips through the near shut blinds. Instantly I roll over expecting to feel Ben next to me, but he is not. I just want him to be with me, physically and emotionally, to make me know he values me. But I guess he doesn’t. I edge out of bed and throw my blue dressing gown over my untouched, unloved and unconvinced skin. I draw in a deep breath and get ready to face the stranger. I linger in the upstairs hallway, which is an odd thing for me to do, looking for any traces of life downstairs. How Ironic is it that he hurts me, but I hate leaving him to fend for himself? I know I must push forward. I make my way to the kitchen, and Ben is nowhere to be found. I poke my head round the door exposing the kitchen, noticing his mobile phone is on the counter. I can hear a quiet niggling voice telling me to check his phone, and I listen to it. I sit in a chair in the dark, lonely kitchen, with the distinct memories - Ben admitted that he cheated on me with nine different women two months ago. I tried to leave him, but I wasn’t strong enough. So, I stayed - to keep me company. My eyes stay glued to the circular wooden table that holds the information I crave. I want to check his phone. I want to search through his messages and see how many different whores he has been in contact with, while I’m at home looking after our three year old son.

February 3rd 2010: 5:37p.m. The acknowledgment of knowing that Ben has sent some random girl a picture of his private parts have put the final nail in the coffin that is our marriage. How could he do this to me? Not one, not two, not three but four different woman in two weeks. I pace back and fourth in the darkness of the downstairs hallway as he comes through the front door and rushes in the direction of the kitchen, and since he holds no respect for me, I thump him in the back as he rushes pass. He turns round, the same scented fragrance as yesterday staggers me. I want to scream. I know the second I do, he’ll be down on both knees, a blend of pleading and begging and crocodile tears before I can tell him it’s over. It won’t come out. Yet. My voice is not acting to my hurt ego yet. Throwing away my marriage means I am accepting a huge defeat. I am saying that all these skanks are worth more than me. But, when he stumbles and grabs hold of the frame of the kitchen door he has a look to him that I’ve seen everyday for the past two months; disgust. Yes, that’s it. Disgust burns his eyes with such authority that I feel we can’t talk.

February 4th 2010: 9:46p.m. “Open your eyes, Marie,” he says.


I do not want to take in his presence. My broken heart has only just allowed me to sleep, it seems, and I do not want this horrible, unsympathetic, cheating, no-good, potentially STI walking man to bring me back to a place where I have just shut off. Pathetic Ben is there and I do not want to listen to him turn this situation around on me and make me seem like I brought this on myself. It’s too much too soon. I want to stay here, half asleep, half numb from the six shots of Sambucca, watching the world carry on without me. “Come on, Marie, don’t make this all about you, just listen to why I did what I did.” Huh. Is he serious? Is this his pitiful way of trying to bring me round? Why he thinks I would want to hear this is beyond me. “Marie… you just don’t do it for me. I come home from a long day at work and all you do is smother me. Living with you is like living with a junkie trying a syringe in my veins. Well, when he puts it like that and his face stays regular, I know…

February 5th 2010: 11:00p.m. I peer at him through the irrepressible pong of lies fused with the exhilarating acknowledgement of knowing I am going to do to him exactly what he has done to me for seven consecutive years. I take his hand, his body lifeless, lace my fingers through the gaps between his. “I’m going to make you suffer, and then you will know exactly how it feels to have your heart hit with a sledgehammer,” I whisper. “I hate you.” As soon as my soft lips touch his cold hands, I slither out of bed and head downstairs. It was the thought of what I was about to do that left me jittery. Vast, rocky floods of terror warped round in my stomach. I pick up the house phone, running my fingers over the numbers I know I have to press. I’d tried, I’d really tried, I’d even given Ben every chance to admit he had a part to play in the breakdown of our marriage – but he couldn’t. I dial the number, my heart is beating a mile a minute, and he answers. The sound of his deep voice soothes me without delay.

February 6th 2010: 3:19p.m. I’d undressed in ironic ecstasy, leaving my clothes to fall where they may. I’d wanted to feel numb and Aaron – Ben’s older brother – gave me that channel. During the aftermath of our night of guilty pleasure, I expected him to jump out of the ‘Mr. nice-guy’ routine, but he never did. And that was why I let him hold me all night long; it was like he sucked the venomous low self-worth out of my veins and filled it with sexiness. “I’m sorry for what my brother did to you,” Aaron tells me while his eyes search my face. “He can be a real ass hole sometimes.” “Yeah,” I mummer almost robotically. Aaron and I don’t talk like this – not ever. I know he cares for me, I’ve always known. He thinks I don’t notice him when I see him stealing quick

peaks at me when Ben invites him round for dinner, the look of lust radiating out of every pore of his flawless skin. He turns my head towards him with a lift of his index finger, and I feel my heart flutter with a child-like crush. I don’t want to fall for him, but I can see it happening. His green eyes glisten under the moon light. And then he kisses me; full with compassion, desire, and guilt.

February 20th 2010: 12:00p.m. The last two week has been an emotional rollercoaster. Over the last week and a half I’ve walked round the house resembling Jekyll and Hyde, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I feel bloated and my feet have swollen. At the back of my mind I have a sneaky suspicion I am pregnant. I’m so sure that I’ve already taken the test. The results will be clear in the next thirty seconds. Let the count down commence. Thirty. I do not regret what I have done. Aaron made me feel like a real woman. He was sensitive to my needs; he knew how to kiss me, how to hold me, and how to respond to my body. I can never thank him enough for that. The worst thing is Ben knows I’ve cheated. I can see it in his eyes. Yesterday he confronted me, and while I deliberated, watching the slightly worried look dribble out of his skin, I hindered my secret. I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag just yet. I want to tell him I’m pregnant, make him think it’s his baby, and when his brother shows up in the delivery room, all will be revealed. Ten. I’m preparing to leave him. I’ve already told Aaron and he told me he wants to be with me. Can you believe it? Me. One. I pick up the pregnancy stick off the bathroom counter. Positive. I’m pregnant. A single tear rolls down my cheek and splats on the titled floor. A surge of unenthusiastic and optimistic emotions attack my body simultaneously. I lean against the wall, full of conclusion. “Ben,” I whimper, my voice gruff from the lump stuck in my throat. “Thank you for showing your true colours.” “Thank you for walking all over me.” “Thank you for pinning the blame on me” “Thank you for leading me astray.” “Thank you for blessing me with a wonderful son who you have not bonded with.”

“But most of all…” I hesitate, savouring the delicious finale. “Most of all, thank you for making me hate you with such passion, it’s ridiculous.


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