Sunday, 27 February 2011
04:55:00 PM (GMT)
It was a brief migraine like any other, so she relished it while it lasted, which
was never very long.
A flickering of images:
night- brackish sea- cliff- scrapes- dirt- rubbered hands- chemical fume- needle-
But she still remembered.
White thread traced behind a needlepoint that went in. out. in. out. in. out.
Tiny little rows of neat stitches pulled the covering together. It was soothing to
know that her skin would not rip or fester under such precise care, not like the
previous sloppy work that came from the rushed hands of the last to work on her.
in. out. in. out. in. out.
For each steady draw and release of her breath, five stitches came and went. Lack of
chaos was good. Surgical order felt good. She drank it up like alcohol and let her
mind numb itself with relief, just this once.
A gentle tug, a knotting of the thread, and the being finished its job. Not bad, for
the skin that still remained.
Her eyelids were sewn shut.
It was beautiful work.