The Beat of Her Heart

This story may contain trauma-related content associated with mental health, substance abuse, and disability.  

Strawberry blonde hair whipped violently up and down to the band’s quick heavy beats. She could feel her heart racing. Anger sustained its rhythm. Strands of hair clung and webbed across her face as she tossed her head side to side. Slender fishnet covered arms reached for the ceiling. As if casting a spell, she beckoned the words toward her.

“We were born in the Nothing,” the gravelly voice belted, “Soulless. Heartless. I-cee and Hollow.”

She chorused the next set of lyrics, “Now, devoid of favor. Left to break and crumble in… to… the dust you sprang from.” A hot swollen tear slid sluggishly along the bridge of her nose, silently bursting in the crease of her nostril. “Rotting in your chaotic demise. Where are the answers,” she began to cry. Her thin red lips began to quiver, “A failed experiment, your pain is our pleasure. We are the faceless, devoid of physical form.” She screamed at the top of her lungs.

Consumed with grief she spun her wheelchair, blindly, in a wide misshapen circle. Someone grabbed the handles of her chair and started spinning her, robbing her of the little control she still had. Her cries for help, absorbed by the music’s chaos, melded within the dense darkness around her. A wave of nausea tickled the back of her throat where three pineapple margaritas threatened to escape. Arms stretched out; she lunged her body towards the unknown. 

Consumed with grief she spun her wheelchair, blindly, in a wide misshapen circle. Someone grabbed the handles of her chair and started spinning her, robbing her of the little control she still had. Her cries for help, absorbed by the music’s chaos, melded within the dense darkness around her. A wave of nausea tickled the back of her throat where three pineapple margaritas threatened to escape. Arms stretched out; she lunged her body towards the stillness of the bar floor.

Soft, thick arms cushioned her fall protecting her from serious injury. The smell of shaving cologne agitated her nose. It was strong and musky. His voice was smooth and sultry.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he shouted over the music. “You looked like you could use a hand from that guy. Would you like a lift?”, he asked trying to break the ice.

Annoyed, “If you could be quick about it, that would be best,” she spat. Even though she couldn’t see the reactions of people’s faces, the sense of shame was just as overpowering as this guy’s cologne.

Swiftly, he collected her from the sticky floor. The new band, What You Want, took to the stage. She smelled like lavender and hibiscus. He could stay drunk off her scent forever. She pulled away from him quickly before adjusting herself in her wheelchair.

She could hear the room filling up with voices, smells, and clinking of glasses. Her hand went toward the direction of the man’s cologne. Gripping his hand, she tugged him toward her. The band had not yet begun to play. “I’m sitting at the booth at the end of the bar. Could you push me there?”, she asked.

“With pleasure!”, he smiled.

“Don’t get excited. I like sitting alone."

Weaving in between tipsy patrons, “In the dark?”, he inquired. “That can’t be good for the soul.”

With angry curled lips, “If you haven’t noticed, I am always in the dark. I can’t get away from it,” she sneered.

He parked her next to the booth facing the dance floor. Brushing back his bushy brown locks away from his eyes, he asked, “I could use the company, would you mind a drink?”

How rude for one to invite themselves when she wanted to wallow in her misery she thought. “I would like a pineapple margarita, heavy on the vodka… Please.” He left in haste, and she tried to withhold her tears. She had starred in this movie a year ago. She and her fiancé David met in this booth. It was theirs and theirs alone. He proposed to her on Saint Patrick’s Day. Nuzzling up to his beard and playing with his curls are small moments she missed.

The smell of Vodka and soft note of pineapple sat before her. Slowly reaching for the glass, a napkin was placed in her hand. She recoiled, briefly shocked, at his touch. Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors began to play.

Hesitantly he introduced himself, “My name is Ollie. I just moved to London from Germany about a month ago.” This is my first time in this bar. I almost left,” he continued, but I saw the passion you had while you danced.”

“If you want to call that dancing. And my name is Patsy,” she responded.

Curious, Ollie asked “Well, Patsy. Why have you allowed the dark to hold you so tightly?”

“My fiancé, David, was rushing us to the airport so he could board the plane to the Americas.” Her lips began to quiver. “We never made it. A bus driver had fallen asleep and hit David,” she wept.

Ollie placed her hand in his and held it gently. “I’m here to listen. Please, go on,” he encouraged.

“He died instantly.” She removed the straw and sipped greedily from her glass, “I woke up in hospital eight days later. I couldn’t see and all I did was scream,” she reminisced.

His hand squeezed hers in support. “Would you mind if I sat next to you?”, he questioned.

The pause seemed like an eternity. A deep sigh escaped from Patsy’s lips, “Yes,” she said softly.

Owner of a Lonely Heart began to play. Ollie eased into the booth next to her. His right hand guided her red hair behind her ear. It traveled to the right side of her body and drew her close to him.

Her hate and anger melted away in his embrace. She found her arms encasing his waist. His heart was strong.

Ollie put her hand to his face. He allowed her to study it. Her pulse raced in time with his as it lingered on his cheek. “I know this may seem forward,” his voice cracked, But, could I interest you in a dance? I want to help you remember and reconnect with the rhythm your soul longs for.” He kissed her forehead.

Patsy sighed, “I don’t think there is much room for me and my chair on the floor.”

“You let me worry about that. You’ll remember how to smile again,” he beamed. Rising from the booth he carried Patsy to the dance floor cradled in his arms.

Surprised, she did not feel shame, but a wave of relief and peace kissed her heart. He was so strong. Patsy pushed away any negative thoughts and embraced the moment.

They swayed and their hearts echoed as they held each other close.

Ollie could not help but gaze into her beautiful green eyes. They sparkled.

She reached for his face and found his lips as they danced to the beat.

Passing

sadness morphs into acceptance

morphs into joy

spread?