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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2165506
by Birch
Rated: E · Chapter · Emotional · #2165506
A short story of someone dying, part one
Skin is the most unflattering thing. Pink and blotched, mine stares back at me like the skin of a pig in waiting for a slaughter overdue. Pores that open and close, open and close, filled with sweat and dirt as they clog around the roots of little blonde hairs. I think about my skin too often, and as with all things, it becomes uncomfortable because of it. When I think about it for too long, too deeply, then I feel it too well; how tight it is, how loose, how ill-fitting. All things. When you rip away the plastic which you have put up over it you begin to realise that the world is not quite as glossy as you thought, and if you shake away all the filters which you have acquired over time you will find that your colours were always at a fault, and so trees become foreign, people become alien, and everything becomes disturbed in its own sense of the word. It becomes raw.
Each time I look at that pig-skinned alien in the reflection in front of me I feel that every single piece of it is out of place, that the order is wrong. Is there an order? I pick at it, I pull it, I deconstruct it for hours on end. My eyes are placed on my cheeks, my mouth above the wings of my nose and in the end I look like one of those paintings that father hate. Is the face in the mirror really any different from anyone else's? Are those paintings really different from mine? Apparently, they are, for when I try to puzzle everything back together I have always forgotten that already nonsensical order from which I began, and although I think it looks alright in the end, other people never agree. I have seen enough of them cry and scream to know that they do not. It is not their fault.
There are seven paintings hanging on my four bedroom walls. They are paintings of women, of faces without rules. They are the paintings that father hate. Their faces are crooked, misplaced, and traditionally ugly but that only makes them make all the more sense to me. The first thing I saw as I woke up this morning was a woman's eye, just that one eye that looked deeply into both of mine. She was naked and made out of all the hues of blue, sitting in a landscape made of foam as she shaved her cubic leg. I could have been right there, next to her covered in bubbles, watching her skin give way and shape after the razor’s blades that cut off the hairs growing there. I followed the movement and I begged for a touch as her hand slowly climbed up towards her knee. It was a love affair and an imagination too abruptly interrupted by a thud on the windowpane which threw me back into my bed in front of which the painting of the blue lady hangs. Here my skin itches. It itches and it is pink.
All my days look the same. I stand in one place and I eat what my father gives me. I stand there alone and I look around on all these things, these damned things that make no sense. Foreign. Alien. New. Raw. For once I wanted to break the door open, I wanted to walk through those walls and I wanted to go further away than I ever have before. And so I did. I didn’t plan for the day to be so beautiful, I didn't mean for it to be like this, I swear.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2165506