Havisham

Smouldering in the ashes of his betrayal, I wait. I’ve waited. I will wait. I claw at the remnants of our time together, screaming his memory. This is what I have known as a relationship; a series of endless, furious disappointments. Inconceivably, after all this time, I can still ponder his reasoning for deserting me. I loved him.

Some say the closest thing to love is hate and with that I can empathise. My feelings for him were so overbearing that I’m left to despise him. Unwillingly, I have dedicated my life to him; devoted myself to the hatred of him. I have agonisingly shrieked his name until I can no longer speak. My voice rasps, my throat is dry. I have held my breath waiting for him, resorted to gasping back the air in dejected despair.

I’m trapped, unrelentingly, in this unrequited love story. Love is futile, worthless. As, incontestably, my rage overwhelms me, my loneliness does also. Discarded and forsaken. Somehow he left me neglected and vacant, void of emotion, compelled to remain in my desolation. Tears stream to the point where there is nothing left, I am empty.

So you ask, what is love? What is a relationship? Love is deceitful and deceptive; it convinces you that someone is unquestioningly committed to you. Love lies. Relationship… the word ignites a fire in me that flares deep inside, it burns. Does this word not suggest trust, reliability, stability? It lies.

Love. Relationship. These two words made me what I am. They left me devastated, a shadow of the person I once was. The concept of love resulted in the need for destruction and, with nothing better to destroy, I have allowed it to eat away at me. Rotting in my defeat, I submit, I surrender to the agony of insufferable abandonment.

I loved him.

What is it?

An object? A memory? A possession? A reminder of a time when things were different?

What if it's more than that? What if in the thin gold band there is the reassurance of something to hold on to? In the icy stones, carefully set, there is the promise of commitment and unconditional love? What if in the unassuming amethyst placed centrally there is the certainty of who I am and where I come from?

It's more than just a ring, it was a gift to me that meant something undeniable. It meant that, although the person presenting it to me may not always be there, they loved me and they wanted to be something constant in my life: something physical.

I cannot deny that it is not something I always wear and it's certainly not something that's with me all of the time but I know where it is. I keep it safe. I suppose it’s just like the person who gave it to me; they aren't always there but I know where they are if I need them, I know they'll be there.

In terms of design, it is simplistic, childlike but elegant. Each stone moulded carefully so that, when brought together, the result is a flower. Is it predictable to compare this to meeting with the person who gave it to me? Although our time together is evanescent at least it happens; at least we have time together even if the miles of motorway spread between us.

So effectively it's not just a ring. It's a symbol of love and the determination to be in someone’s life despite the difficulties. Isn't it?