Hey, Mrs. Dalloway

Mrs. Dalloway said she would pick up the flowers herself.

Through time and space, lines such as these echo. Without even being aware of such words, such poetry, silently striding in and out of her life, she looked on. It was a balmy morning- the tea was brought in, the sheets were folded away. The sunlight filtered through the windows and its many layered laces, and the spouse was off at work.

It is during these times, these very times that the formidable happens. She remembered what it was like for her a few years ago- she would always tell him that the nights were the toughest. Not because she needed another presence around to fall asleep or wake up to in the middle of the night. But because, this was when she was finally left alone with her thoughts. And those, as we know, are not exactly the kindest of things.

She looked at herself, at what she seemed like now. All the little things were done up- her toenails were painted, the pillowcases were coordinated. Oh, so much prettiness all around, could a woman ask for anything more?

What would Mrs. Dalloway have had to say about this particular situation?

Tea leaves are interesting things, she thought. They come in different flavours, and colours even. Lending all their character and richness to the brew itself, they then become objects that are best put in a compost pit or a garbage bin. But, please note, without the tea leaves there would be no tea.

So, sometimes, that’s what we do with our lives too. Give ourselves here, give in a little more there, so that in the end the useless leaves can be thrown off.

She carefully put her left foot forward, outside the confines of her silky dressing gown. Her leg was white, a little pink and peachy as her husband liked to call it. And then the bend of the knee, and an exquisitely done thigh. Sub-consciously, she parted her gown some more so that she could look at the entire length of her leg. The scars were there, blue black brown. Delightfully monochromatic colours, all. Just as the tea lent soul to the brew, the colours added character to the scars.

Some of them were mature and blended with the skin, as if that is right were they belonged. The others were a little raw, drying.
The day, and the general scheme of things seemed to suggest that the time was right too.

The tea was getting cold. She picked the cup up gingerly, and smiled to herself. The kind of smile you have that says all is right with the freaking world and you are at such utter peace, oh la la. She flung the cup across the room- straight at the wall.

The china broke into pieces- some big, some small. She picked up two of the pieces- one big, one small, and sat back on her chair. With the big piece, she made another wide slit on her just below the others- the blood trickled, the colours were so striking and beautiful. It went down the length of her leg, leaving a glorious, gory trail behind, and made this little red spot on the white floor. Oh what beautiful colours, you would surely love it, Mrs. Dalloway. She held the small piece of ceramic in her hand and looked at her creation, her piece of art. As if it required a ceremonial crowning, the little piece of china was inserted in the slit she made- the throbbing blood and muscle and nerves and all that stuff inside felt so good.

Aren’t scars beautiful things, don’t they lend so much character?
She felt alive, so very alive.