top of page

2 Broken Men

Background.jpg

Upon returning from Puerta Vallarta, an invisible war waged within me, its battleground in my mind. The tranquility of my return to the United States was but a facade; unseen forces continued their assault, manifesting in the most mundane moments. A visit to the family house turned into a battleground, their innocuous movements perceived as aggressive gestures, pushing me to be brave.

In this turmoil, an unexpected figure appeared: shaved ice. Its cold embrace lulled me into a deep slumber, a temporary respite from the relentless battle. Yet, this peace was fleeting. As consciousness slipped away, the figure left, daring to whisper his name before vanishing as quickly as he appeared.

The war resumed with renewed ferocity, this time his shadow returning to inflict an excruciating pain as if a sword had been thrust into my womb. The agony was unbearable, blurring the line between consciousness and oblivion. Tears escaped my eyes, the only proof of my silent suffering.

With every ounce of willpower, I pushed myself to walk as far as I could, each step a battle against the chaos within. The journey was a testament to my resilience, a lone figure walking a path fraught with unseen demons and the weight of an internal war.

In my turmoil, a moment of clarity pierced the fog of war within me. The entities that had tormented me—the heart and the voice—had transformed. With my realization, their roles reversed: the heart adopted the voice's mantle, and the voice took up the heart's cause. This exchange brought a new dimension to my internal struggle, intertwining emotion and expression in a way I had never experienced before.

In my bewildered state, it was then that a truck driver, a witness to my plight, spoke a harrowing truth. He mentioned, with a tone of inevitability, that neither the heart nor the voice, in their new guises or old, would come to my rescue. This declaration, rather than disheartening me, sparked a defiant determination.

His words, meant to caution, catalyzed my resolve to navigate this labyrinth of pain and confusion on my terms. The realization that my salvation lay within, and not in the external manifestations of my turmoil, marked the beginning of a journey towards self-reclamation, a path fraught with challenges but illuminated by the flickering light of hope.

Over time, once a beacon of goodness, the voice began to resonate with malevolence, even as the heart clung to its last vestiges of purity. Yet, as eight years elapsed, the voice started to reveal truths, casting a shadow over the heart, which, in turn, began to succumb to darkness.

Throughout this ordeal, I held onto my voice and heart steadfastly, determined not to let malevolent forces overtake them. Today, as I confront the truth, I recognize how my voice and heart have been damaged over the years. Yet, I remain capable of steering them towards the right path. In this respect, I am not defeated.

bottom of page