She looks down, and says aloud, irritation seeping into her voice: “What kind of mess did you get yourself into? I thought we decided we’d be more careful on where and what we trip over?”

A whimper floats up as a response.

“I suppose you are just going to sit there and stare at me now, aren’t you?

The old clock ticks seconds loudly while they stare back at each other. Concern looking into guilt.

Oh alright, hush. Let me take a look?”

With a slow delicate finger she lifts an end into her palm, and peers down. The robust red that it once shone of, was now a lackluster maroon. Dark black scar streaked diagonally, a vestige from a long gone ravage. Her forefinger traces an arc over the ashen bump, next to the fresh deep crimson gorge. A lump of pale puke, unceremoniously stuck along the wall, having no route for escape.

A soiled tear makes its labored way along the ridges making a perfect circle on the gray below.

Her voice dropping down a notch, she comforts: “This is deep, sweetie. How did this happen at all? You know better than to allow this, don’t you?  It must hurt, but we’ll make it alright soon.  Just hold on okay?”

With a moist white gauze, she wipes the gash down. Firm and steady, with just enough pressure to remove the now caked mire, yet only slightly grazing the nerves below. She continues talking in an even voice, so as to distract and keep thoughts engaged.

“Do you have any idea how strong and rugged you really are? How many of these you’ve blown away with a small gesture, a wave of hand? I know I haven’t told you this often enough, but am so darned proud of you. Oh yes, remember the incident at the school, how refined you handled the situation, and the other time when you knew the sneaky culprits, but you bore it all in silence anyway. A decision you took after great thought and consideration. A composed silent dignity that only the more perceptive could realize. Honestly, that was mighty distinguished of you.”

A flush makes its appearance gradually. A smog of doubt swirling into comprehension, making way for comfort. Clear sighs bubble in succession.

“I know you think the right thing is to not fight back or attack, but c’mon sweetie, all things aside, you have got to learn to protect yourself. See, look around you, everyone’s doing it. Protecting themselves no matter the ripples it causes around. It’s ruthless even, at the complete disregard for compassion and humanity, but that’s the kind of muck we live in. Think about it as “adaptation”. We’ve been doing it for generations now, it isn’t new. Wait, you do understand what I mean by adapting, don’t you? It doesn’t mean one changes inherently, it is to react differently to a similar situation when it repeats itself.”

The wound now disinfected and naked, she picks up a wad of cotton bandage and unrolls it. The smell of antiseptic washes over them, leaving behind a squeaky clean slate in its place. A warmth now radiates through her palms, radiating a smile and a hope into it.

She continues: “You are worth it. Every bit of you. Do not ever let anyone fool you into thinking otherwise. Ever. You are a precious piece in the grand scheme of things, and you know it. It’s after all natural to occasionally let smoke get in our eyes, especially when the heart’s on fire, but the good thing about it is that, it clears as rapidly as it binds. We are survivors. We will always be, and every such event only reinforces us to stay on our path. Whatever you do, you sure aren’t turning back. Okay?”

The pulse once feeble now picks up a steady pace. The paleness rapidly disappearing into a flush healthy pink. A redness robust in its function and as a symbol of all things healthy.

Smiling: “There, you look just fine and perfect if I may say so? Remember, you are beautiful, strong and wise and very worth it. Just have faith in yourself. You and me sweetie, just you see, we’ll go a long way!”

So saying, she picked up her heart, placed it ever so gently within her tranquil chest and skipped out onto the lawn filled with yellow daffodils. A clear sign of a welcoming new Spring.

The thud of the towel on the hardwood floor was muffled. She eyed the now banded reflection with veiled disinterest, like one would a pack of chicken breasts at the deli. Lowering her eyes and she started from the floor.

Her feet. The pedicure with the bright red toes with white flowers on the big toe was fading. Her second toe longer, the last curved and tucked in for comfort. The thin yellow anklet throbs at her ankle. The mottled imperfect old oval scar from a past escapade. The shin, smooth and shining, a straight line across her curved calves. Strong cafe-au-lait curved bows in perfect symmetry.

Her knees. Ugh. The scars of bike rides and of the scalpels in a rushed disarray of folds and dips, resembling dark coffee mounds.

Her thighs. Light beige and mellow compared to where they took off, they were rounded and lay strong. They’d changed shape she’d noticed. Once thin, hours of fat, muscle, and exercise had now changed their course to tough. Pirouetting on her toes, she watched the the sides move in unison. A woman’s thighs, she decided: not a girl’s, not a man’s, not a child’s.

Her hips. Wincing inwardly, she placed her palms on her wide square, rounded hips. Pinching at a piece of tan flesh, she ruefully thought of how once that was impossible. It was easy now. Flesh-pinching, that is. Baby fat, just like babies never really leave the mother.

Her unique part of the body. She now turned her attention to the kangaroo pouch. Except that there was no more little roo inside, and yet the pouch hung large, scarred and useless. Stretch marks in different hues of ochre, tan, white, taupe and sepia, the oldest mingling with the most recent, signs of borne responsibilities. She grabbed the piece of flesh that lay there. It fit her palm, and more. A crescent-shaped heavy piece of extra fold. One that increased with each child, and had left behind its mark. Breathing in made it look rotten. A vestige. A rotting boat in the brackish waters. It was ugly, even to her, and it was her own. The memory of a flat belly buried within its largely bloated remnants.

Her belly button. Dark, mysterious and half open, she had flaunted with great pride. With the marks creeping to lay alongside of it as if in guard, it resembled a rusty brown keyhole. One that no key would dare come close.

Her waist. Sandy soil beach. It still curved where it should on the sides. Placing her palms on either side, she willed them to meet. A good three inches apart the fingers stood facing off throwing creamy froth between them. A long time ago, they had overlapped and thumb wars raged and tickled her innards. Twisting to her side, she observed: not a six pack, heck not even two dimensional anymore. A robust visible sandy mound that dipped from below her chest onto her belly button. A treat for clear water drops in the shower.

Her arms. Like two dark branches of burnt sienna, they stretched into little pudgy fingers. Once lissome, lean and thin, they still were, except that the elbow was just a shade darker, her muscles with just a bit of flab, and the veins on the back of her palm stood out angry. Nothing delicate anymore.

Her chest. Tired naked limp breasts hung on either side. With her palms, she coerced them into a cleavage. Dark black nipples threatened to take over the small expanse of legal fat she showed off. Push-up bras were a blessing, a necessity.

Her neck. Shielding her eyes away from the joke, she traveled further up. Faint copper wires lined her neck. Stretching it, she willed them to disappear, but as she had found out later, about fat cells and their creeping in, almost always leave behind a wake. This was the visible wake she’d have to live and sleep with.

Her lips. Once supple, light and traceable, they reeked of bitter tales. Stranded bars of dark chocolate in the afternoon sun, the lines merged and melted forming a crater of molten charcoal.

Her hair. Black, shiny and thick of the past now morphed to, coppery auburn, haggard and stringy. A sick lioness’ mane.

Finally, she meets her eyes.

Dispassionate. Flat. Hazel.

Dead.