I'm certain I look more determined than I feel as I survey the mess around me. In the last couple of hours, I have turned my room into a disaster zone, and I have only just begun.
I start anew with the cupboards, yanking out pile after pile of freshly washed and ironed clothes. As each pile falls messily to the floor, I begin to feel more and more vicious. Next, I attack my shoes, hurling them onto the now mountainous pile of clothes next to me. It feels good, hearing them thump defenselessly onto my defeated t-shirts. When I'm done with this phase of my carnage, I begin to slowly pick my way through the debris. After a few minutes, I come across the first of my victims. A plain, white kurta. This used to be one of my favourites. I stomp across the room, and grab the large, black-handled pair of scissors I've chosen specially for this exercise. As if to warn the garment of its impending doom, I hold up the scissors, opening and closing the sharp blades, making it voice its war-cry...swish swish...before I go at the throat. I slash it open with a ferocity that surprises me, but only for a moment. Soon, the scissors are discarded, and I take to the cloth like an unleashed beast, ripping and tearing and gouging, until it resembles nothing more than a mess of tangled innards. Once I am pleased, or as pleased as one can be, under cicumstances like these, I walk back to the pile of clothes, and calmly, albeit with shaking hands, separate the messy pile into 'keep' and 'discard'. I stop for a moment when I get to the red shoes. Remember those? Of course you do. I allow myself a moment's hesitation, a silent mourning for the fate that is about to befall the shoes, and I throw them behind me. Satisfied that I have been thorough, I force myself to look at the pile of rejected items. It is not too large, which makes me oddly happy. I bend down, pick it all up and put it into the box I've set aside in the corner of the room.
Next, I move on the dressing table. This is going to be a bit tougher, I think, but by this time, I have calmed down somewhat, so when I stand in front of the row of perfumes, I know there isn't going to be any bloodshed there. I pull out bottle after bottle, allowing myself to sniff each one for a long time, before placing the bottles in the box. I do this slowly, methodically - and almost sadly - for the jewellery, the trinkets, and even the photo frame I find stashed at the very back of the last drawer. I look over to the box, and see that it is almost full. Will I need another one? I walk around the room, looking around to see what I have missed out. I run through a mental checklist. I've changed all my email passwords, from your name to the name of my first dog, I've renamed my pen drive - no longer is it a cutesy reminder of the nicknames you had for me - and I've moved all your emails to a hidden folder in my inbox. I've taken out all the small reminders of you that lingered in my handbag, my laptop, and my room. I've even hidden all the pictures of us. It seems like I've managed to take care of everything. That would mean, then, that it is time.
She's promised that she'll do this with me, hold my hand through it, but I'm convinced I'll be fine. This has been a long time coming, I think, and it's my last goodbye. The people from the centre are waiting for me downstairs. I walk over to them, a large smile pasted on, and I wonder if they can tell that it's fake. I hand the box over, while exchanging a few pleasantries. I notice the shredded kurta peeking through the mess, and I reach in to pull it out, apologising for having forgotten to throw it away. As I yank it out, I hear a small clink, as something metallic falls to the ground. I look down in time to see a small silver ring rolling away. I run forward, grabbing it just before it falls into a crack in the pavement. As I hold it in my hand, my eyes flick towards the inscription. "Always Yours". For a minute, I'm back in his arms, as he gives me the ring, his breath warming my ear as he tells me we'll be together forever. For a minute, I can almost smell his perfume, and feel the well-worn cotton of his t-shirt. I clutch the ring tightly in my hand, and, for the first time in months, I start to cry.
