Best Australian Yarn: Woe is the Broken Heart by Matylda Dominikowska

Woe is the broken heart, the inheritor of pain and distress from the world. For I am only an observer of a gut-wrenching story involving a woman by the name of Mrs Stewart. A woman that was an unconditional provider for her narcissistic husband, relentlessly taking care of his self-absorbed personality. And perhaps it was on that autumn day, when the smell of a crisp breeze was accompanied by the deteriorating heart-shaped leaves flowing in the wind, that there was a change. A change in which her life would be altered forever.

And what will one do when such a sudden and tormenting change is introduced?

A question that etched its way into my mind as a timid woman found herself in my mother’s laundromat in a panicked confusion.Mrs. Stewart, an affectionate woman at heart, pouring out her body’s love into her beloved husband of 28 years. She would do whatever her husband asked of her, relentlessly in good faith. She washed the dishes, her hands scraping against the ceramic material the plates were composed of. She cooked with a passion, upholding a marriage of devotion, affection and romance infused with the aromatic spices, condiments, and oils imbued into the food that her supposedly benevolent husband so enjoyed eating. Their love was branded as reciprocal to the public eye, his unconditional love for his devoted wife as radiant and vibrant as the flowers that bloom in the Summer.

But alas, Summer must come to an end, because the world will not stop at a single woman’s expense. For Summer will be met with Autumn herself, a disaster dressed in deteriorating leaves, foggy rains, and a complete lack of flamboyance.‘And what will one do when such a sudden and tormenting change is introduced?’A familiar question that was pondered by a heartbroken Mrs. Stewart as she tumbled into the laundromat in a flurry.I had immediately taken notice of her melancholic demeanour, quite like a constant storm cloud that sulks over someone’s head.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Stewart?” I asked, expecting the usual assurances.

“Oh, but you are too young to understand.” She began, the clean-cut ends of her grey hair resting on shoulders, “Love is a treasure to some, a curse to others. Affection is like the phases of the moon that the heartbroken will gaze into each night. My love was a waxing gibbous, growing by the seconds longer that I could enjoy my husband’s company, my heart was a full moon satisfied with the compassion that I gave.”She ran her finger against the smudged mascara in the corner of her eye.“I had the fullest belief that my husband felt the same. But I was blindsided by my own feelings. His love wasn’t a waxing gibbous, it wasn’t even partial to a full moon. A waning crescent, or even a new moon, as empty and dull as his heart, was the way to describe his putrid feelings towards me.”

And it was with that she broke down. She broke down on that hard tile floor, loud sobs escaping her body. Her body lay there motionless, emitting cries that could break the heart of the entire world. Her body lay there motionless, emitting cries that only the heartbroken could understand.Her body lay there motionless, emitting cries that rang the church bells that sounded when she had gotten married to a man that proclaimed ‘I do’ with a counterfeit emotion.

For love cowers at the beast of narcissism, the heart a weakling compared to what egocentricity will bring. She loved her husband. She loved him with the same passion that would drive her into an intense agony. So why wouldn’t he love her back? Why would such a monster profess his love in a ring that was melded from fake gold?But there was nothing she could do now, as she wailed profanity upon her fraud of a husband, upon the world, upon every one that was ever in love. Beating her fists against the surface of this forsaken earth, her head pounding with a pain that she would never consign to oblivion. As she cried the sweet of her heart, her husband laughed with salt of his soul.He hadn’t even realised she left the house.

Her wailing resounded along the walls of the laundromat, shaking the heart of the whole town. My mother knew that sound all too well, as she rushed to the woman that was weeping on the floor, her grief a faucet that couldn’t be turned off. Pushing me aside, I heard my mother yelling to call an ambulance.

The last thing I had seen of her was the face of a broken-hearted woman, sick with sorrow.

It was surreal when those red and blue lights had arrived, the paramedics’ uniforms running out to attend to the woman that was lying on the laundromat floor. Rapidly attempting to save her body from slipping into an eternity of darkness. I was witness to chest compression after chest compression, her lifeless stomach moving up and down alongside the motion of the medic’s gloves.Until a sudden halt. A stoppage in the movement of the hands on the chest of Mrs Stewart.The green gloves came off, a motion accompanied with the solemn sentence of,

“Time of death: 17:47.”

A stifled sob escaped my mother’s lips, a tear running down her pale skin. I held her hand as tight as I could, our fingers intertwined in a joint feeling of complete dolefulness.

No. This had been too fast. This was just some sick dream that I couldn’t get out of, right? I’ll wake up and this ghastly world will simply be an unconscious memory.

“Ma’am?” A voice was heard over the relentless ringing in my ears, in my head, in my skin.My weary eyes travelled up to meet a man of brown hair and dark complexion, wearing a paramedic uniform.Smoothing out her clothing, my mother responded with a break in her voice, “Yes?”

“It was a broken heart, Ma’am. Amanda Stewart died of a broken heart.”