Her (Episode 1/3)

william

MY BODY REJECTED all the skin drafts they tried on me and on the contrary, they made my wounds worse. Infections came after infections and the outer dermis of my skin was permanently ruined with abnormal pigmentation. Sometimes I am still fraught with flashbacks of the kids at school running away from me or calling me Freddy Krueger. It got so bad Mom had to homeschool me but that didn't prevent them from coming around the house, throwing pebbles and yelling, Monster, monster! Freddy Krueger!

Adding insult to injury, they nicknamed my neighborhood Elm Street. But anyway, that was long ago and I should probably let it go, but can't. My therapist, Dr. Burrows, call these intrusive thoughts. He makes me sketch them out in front of him as if the paper could suck them all away. Then we go out into the backyard of the office to burn and bury them in a hole in the ground where other clients leave their painful thoughts. I hate those sessions.

I manage to use my deformed right hand sometimes, though I can never open it all the way, like my left. It is forever curved inward, the molten skin knitting the palm tightly together so that my hand basically looks like a withered, dead tarantula.

I've had cosmetic surgery done on most of the right side of my face. But it still looks rough and discolored, like creased parchment paper, and not at all like the beautiful skin on the girls I see in the magazines. I'm particularly jealous of Blake Lively. She's seriously gorgeous. I don't think she has a flaw.

Los Angeles Times even had her as number 35 in their top 50 most beautiful celebs. Her husband isn't bad either. Okay, Ryan Reynolds is a total hunk. I feel burned - no pun intended - whenever I see a picture or video clip of Blake. How can anyone be so lucky?

Ever since the accident, it is like my eyes can't produce enough of their own tears, so I have had to give in to the continual use of synthetic tears. So, more eye drops after I brush my teeth, then I glue on some practical false lashes. Not the sex kitten type, but types good enough to say I put some kind of effort into my appearance. I'm stroking brush bristles through my sunrise-colored wig when my phone goes off. I put it on speaker. "Hello, doll! You're up! Good, good! I was so worried you'd miss it!" She's loud, she's really loud, and she sounds like she's already had her eight daily cups of coffee. Not like she needs it. Wonda Bird, as I call her, is always speedy and bursting with energy. I swear she has ADD and I think it's adorable. No one like her to get me going.

But I am groggy and all weak-feeling. I'm up early (early for me) at four p.m. to get to a 5:30 Lust 4 Life conference. It is one of those positivity-talk, new age things. I won't be speaking and the room will be packed enough for no one to notice me much, but it's taking a lot of energy out of me to get motivated to go. I am only doing this to appease my worker, Wonda, who is adamant I attend. To get out the house she said. To get inspired.

I'm rushing now because I want to get there early so I can sit at the back, out of anyone's line of sight. Just being courteous. I'm glad that everything is close to everything here in London, so as I hop in my Century at 4:20, I know I'll arrive before five even in rush hour traffic.

Sipping coffee from my worn thermos, I text my eldest sister, who resides in Toronto, if her hubby has the prosthetics done for me yet. He's a plastic surgeon, an artist. After taking some pictures of my skin, the normal portion, he'd decided to come up with some skin prosthetics free of charge. Said I can use them whenever I like, use and reapply. Normally stuff like this would cost around $4,000, so I am grateful plus excited to try it. With it on I should basically look normal. He hasn't invested in ones for my hand and leg yet, nor my back, but I suppose this is good enough. The face is the most important part. It is your character, your being. It is how the world sees you. It holds the essence of who you are. I'm excited. This should be good!