An Extraordinary Life

Time

They say time heals all wounds. But Isabella for one, never quite agreed with whomever "they" might be. Of course, there are minor emotional slashes, ones that leave scratches and scrapes, but don't pierce. They don't require an explanation when asked about them because nobody ever asks. They don't need to be tended to, or constantly checked on. There's no need, after all.

It's the wounds from arrows that you carry for years. They stay stuck in you. After all, if you take them out, you'll simply bleed out.

You also have to remember the bullet holes and the deep knife stabs that even once healed, you'll never forget the way they felt when they entered you. You imagine your insides forever red and forever angry, and you're left endlessly raw and achy.

Some days you feel like the restorative process is finally taking its course, and others, you feel like the wound is as fresh as ever.

Often, your healing process, or lack thereof, is your own fault. Picking and pulling and prodding gets you a reopened gash that clearly, not even time can mend. So, you do the only thing that makes sense to: you leave it alone and pretend it doesn't exist as much as it'll let you.

Or maybe that's just Isabella, seven years since he wounded her and the rest of the world. Today, her insides are a violent crimson. Just yesterday, she was simply an agitated pink.

It's 1998 and Titanic just became the first movie to gross a billion dollars. Harrison Ford is apparently the sexiest man alive and Isabella is in the parking lot of her therapist's office.

Isabella pulls her front mirror down and, as always, expects to see someone older. She certainly feels older than a woman in her late twenties, like she's endured at least a few strenuous lifetimes. On particularly bad days, she swears she doesn't recognize herself at all. She doesn't know the curly-haired brunette who stares back at herself in car mirrors, steamy bathroom reflections, or even the metal walls of the elevator that brings her up to her 10th floor apartment in Boston.

In her reflection, Isabella sees the woman staring back make a bat with her brows.

"You look fine, babe," James smiles slightly, pulling her out of her thoughts. "More than fine! Dr. Simmons is one lucky lady."

She laughs lightly to save her voice.

"I'll take that as a small victory," he smiles, unbuckling his seat.

James is Isabella's fiancé. He's a 5'11 firefighter with freckles all over his nose and a cupid's bow lip. More importantly, she believes wholeheartedly that he's everything that's good in not just her world, but the world. James isn't always able to make it better, but he tries. And he doesn't really pry.

The emerald ring hugged by two small diamonds glistens on Isabella's left-hand as she moves to squeeze the arm of yet another irreplaceable man in her life.

This, reader, brings us back to the discussion of time. Time is not only believed to heal wounds, but it's looked upon as the most valuable instrument a person will ever have in their life. The latter of which, Isabella can easily agree with.

No material good can compare with the value of time. You can't buy it at the store, and you sure as hell can't get it back once it's gone.

Isabella was given a beautiful gift in 1982, around the time a new British prince was to be born and Ozzy Osbourne was eating live bats on stage.

It wasn't any ordinary present. She couldn't stick it on her bedroom shelf forever or wear it around her finger. In fact, this present had an expiry date, and one that Isabella had no control over its preservation.