Take a wrong turn down Melancholy Grove and you’ll find the Museum of Heartbreak.
It is an archive immemorial that transcends brick and mortar.
A web of memories relived in remorse-nibbed diary entries and broken-voiced confessions.
Here, we keep the memories curated from the lowest points of your life. These grim moments, once gathering dust in the deepest recesses of your consciousness, have been carefully selected and procured for display.
You enter.
A draught of midnight air hushes through the antechamber as you open the door. The clicking of your heels against the polished marble punctuates the silence. The space is sparsely furnished, with a mahogany desk at its center.
A lone chandelier illuminates both the dozing curator and the desk he occupies, vignetting the room in shadow. You quietly approach the gentleman and softly tap him on the shoulder,
“Excuse me, sir.”
The man startles under your touch, knocking his round spectacles off the bridge of his nose. His heavy footfalls resound through the room as he stumbles to retrieve his glasses.
“I-I-I’m sorry, miss,” he stammers before he reclaims his seat.
“Did you come here for a guided tour or a private viewing?”
“I’m fine to wander around by myself, thanks,” you reply.
“In that case, the entry fee is one bittersweet story.”
“That won’t be necessary,” you respond curtly, removing the brass key from your pocket and holding it up to the dim light.
“I have a seasonal pass.”
The curator’s demeanor pales. “Very well.”
He gestures behind him. “The exhibition you seek is just ahead. Be sure to close the door.”
“Of course,” you reply coolly before making your way to the imposing, yet familiar brass door. You grasp the cold, metallic handle.
It’s locked you think, but that’s to be expected.
You remove the brass key from your pocket and insert it into the keyhole. You grit your teeth, forcefully turning it counter-clockwise. Following a moment of resistance, the door yields with a heavy groan.
Wilting, white wallpaper hanging limply over chestnut floorboards greet you on the other side. The room holds its breath. A torrid heat seams to emanate from every surface. Your nose scrunches in distaste. The stagnant air giving rise to a mildewed odor of a place long forgotten. You regretfully turn back to the frigid antechamber and close the door.
In the museum, every item on display is neatly labeled and carefully encased in glass to stop prying hands. However, prying eyes are left to roam the room. Your eyes survey the titles of some of the exhibition’s oldest pieces; Bishop in Blood, 1975, Tears on Satin, 1938. But as you approach, another piece catches your eye. It’s new.
Your run your fingers along the edge of the display. You close your eyes and let the object betray its past to your touch.
Seinfeld On Netflix, 2016
Hailey wrapped herself in a welcoming blanket of faux-fur and self-pity. Takeaway pizza boxes and used cigarettes littered the floor, lending the room a ‘back-alley-of-a-pizza-joint’ smell. Hailey surveyed her surroundings despondently.
“It looks like a warzone in here,” she thought glumly, “or the remnants of a frat house party sans used condoms.”
Shit. What was she thinking going out with a frat boy? From the moment she met him, their romance was a straight-up 90s movie cliché. You know the type; nerdy girl, frat boy, fateful encounter. However, unlike the movies, their hands didn’t touch as they reached for the same book at a library, and he didn’t notice her from across the room in a love-at-first-sight moment. Well, that’s a lie, he did. If you call eyes meeting from across the beer pong table romantic. But she fell for it, she fell for him.
“Fucking 90s teen movies,” she muttered under her breath as Steinbrenner sings “Heartbreaker” over the TV. She felt the warm burn of tears starting to well up, as she roughly wiped them away.
She refused to cry. Not over him. Not since that night when she pleaded in a small, broken voice for one more shot. One more chance at making it work. “I’m really sorry,” he’d said, voice raised in a half-truth. “But I’m interested in someone else.” Hailey clenched her teeth at the memory of it.
She drew the blanket closer around her. “There’s nothing like wallowing in self-pity, post-break up,” she thought sardonically. She reached for her phone and saw a missed message from him. Her heart skipped a beat. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, but decided to make the call. She dialed the number.
“Can I have one large pepperoni pizza, please?”
You resurface from your reverie, remove your hand from the cool glass and return to the present.
An involuntary shiver ripples through your body as you turn to look at the next object. You have grown accustomed to the room’s heat but the feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach had taken its place. You take a deep breath and approach the next item on display. It’s yours. You reach to touch the smooth glass that encases it. The memory it carries starts to enter the edges of your vision. Your hand sharply recoils from the glass and you start to tremble. You’re not sure if you’re ready to go back there, not yet.
You leave the way you came.
