Skinned

Michael Botur

 

My mum is dead and you want to know if there’s anything you can DO FOR ME?

A real-life saint, a seraph, a goddess has ascended and you want to offer me PLATITUDES?

I want to scrape your face away with claws but my wrists are weak.

I’ve had my skin ripped off and my red flesh throbs at the nipping wind. Every breath a twinge, a pinch. Sashimi seeping serum. Bacteria swim. No barrier to stop insults getting in.

I’m 12 and my brother and I race our bikes on the gravel tracks round the wetlands, standing upright on our pedals, leaning into wind, molars exposed, flapping cheeks, eyes creased with glee.

The stick in the spokes stops me sudden. I skid til my knee’s ripped raw. Stones in the cut. Grey dust black with blood. I wince and wobble home, throw my bike on the lawn, stagger into mum’s apron, head in her pillowy guts, her fingers gooey with pastry, dust, buttered crumbs. It sticks to the juice flowing from my open knee. Nerves skittish. Five alarm. Electric shock. Lightning bolts climb my spine to shock my brain. I burrow into her blubbery belly and bawl. Folds like warm pillowy pancakes. The ocean gurgles in her guts.

My mum is dead and you want to know if there’s anything you can DO FOR ME?

Thanks for the offer. I’m just a little sensitive right now.