01. Bee

There’s a bee on the mantle, lying still.
From the corner of the room, comfortably tucked into the chaise lounge, Edith sits transfixed on the lifeless insect.
She first noticed the bee in passing. Its tiny legs curl into itself and its wings crumple gently against its tiny body as it lay on its side. The familiarity of feeling her body in the same position when she drifts off to sleep strikes her as she gazes at the bee from her seat. Her fingers softly flick the cover of the book she selected, distracted in thought.
Woes have engulfed Edith and reduced her to tiredly drawing parallels. There’d been a time when she wasn’t so easily consumed by thought. When her body chose movement over musing. But now moving had become an effort, one that required tender consideration and trite planning.
The stately room feels grey. Wide windows are gently tapped at by the late afternoon drizzle as the sky resembles an ashen sheet, sweeping across the horizon. The dull light filtering in makes the flat room feel concave, leaving Edith to be pulled further into the depths of her slump.
Fragments of sweet memories waft back to her. A warm breeze comes through the car window as she drives through the countryside. A pale blue chiffon dress that shifts with every step. The warm hum of curiosity pulls her out of bed and directs the course of her days. Life was not stifled, not cramped or kept indoors, it was everywhere that she wanted to be.
Edith lays the book down at the end of the chaise lounge and sits up. She closes her eyes and tries to remember the way life felt when she was actually living in those fragments. Her bare feet softly touch the carpet, she begins to rub them against the fibres to warm up her soles. The action is indulgent, with no thought and all feeling. She opens her eyes and wonders where feeling could take her next.
The bee on the mantle is urging her to move, move, move.
She stands up and smooths her mid-length skirt, then adjusts her pockets back into place. She sets a course for taking a turn of the room. Her feet pad the grim floors gently as her attention turns to the world outside. The soft rainfall has become a turbulent downpour, thundering against the facade of the old, charming, estate. As she paces the room she stops at the record player, noticing she’s never played a song in this room. Trying her best not to give it a second thought, she plucks an LP from the cabinet below and sets the needle down. The music slowly drifts in, humbly overpowering the steady rain.
Each step around the room becomes more unpredictable, more subject to feeling an impulse. As the tender sounds of strings and percussion fill the vast space, Edith’s feet pull her around the room in time. She sways, shifts, and twirls past the chaise lounge, the record player, and the mantle.
There’s a bee on the mantle, cold and stiff in a room now swirling with life.