Flawed / Perfect. Cecelia Ahern

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       Day one.

      I’m home, propped up in my bed by a dozen cushions, organised by Mum, who keeps stepping back to take a look at her work before fluffing and punching again, as if it were a work of art. If she can’t fix me, she can fix the image around me. This is all for the visit of Dr Smith, our family GP. After inspecting my dressings, he sits in the chair by my bed and looks at Mum as he answers her questions.

      “A burn of the tongue will look and feel different, depending on the degree of the burn. A first-degree burn injures the outermost layer of the tongue. This leads to pain and swelling. A second-degree burn is more painful because it injures the outermost and under layers of the tongue. Blisters may form, which is what has happened here, and the tongue, as in her case, appears swollen. A third-degree burn affects the deepest tissue of the tongue. The effect is white or blackened, burnt skin. Numbness or severe pain.”

      Or both.

      Dr Smith sighs, his friendly grandfather face showing that he is clearly finding this difficult.

      “She appears to have received the correct medical attention at the castle. Her tongue is not infected, the blistering will eventually go away. Her taste buds have been destroyed—”

      “Not that she’s eating anyway,” Mum interrupts.

      “That’s to be expected. Celestine has been through an ordeal. Her appetite will eventually return, as will her taste buds, which regenerate every two weeks. The severe, untreatable pain that she is experiencing now can sometimes lead to feelings of depression and anxiety.”

      You don’t say.

      Mum purses her lips and lifts her chin. I watch them talk to each other, over me, across my bed, as if I’m not here.

      “Most burns heal within two weeks; however, some can last up to six weeks.”

      He looks at me sadly, as if remembering I’m here.

      “There is one more thing,” he adds. “There is a … sixth brand …” He seems uncomfortable mentioning it.

      Mum looks at him in panic. He leaves the sentence hanging.

      “We’ve known each other a long time, Summer,” he says gently. “I’ve seen Celestine and this family through measles and chicken pox, vaccines and whatever else. I can assure you of my utmost discretion in this matter.”

      She nods again, and I can see the fear in her. She wasn’t in the chamber when the final two sears happened, none of my family was, and I don’t want to talk about it. Ever. I don’t even know if Mr Berry shared it with her. But she’s my mother, and she was there. So she can guess what Crevan did in the state he was in, and she is respecting my silence, though I know Dad wants to know. The question is on the tip of his tongue every time he looks at me, but he holds back, probably holding himself responsible for encouraging me to speak up for myself and landing myself in this agony. I don’t think either of them could imagine, even in their wildest nightmares, that it could have been Crevan who delivered the sixth and final brand.

      “I’ll come back in a few days to review the dressings again, but if there’s anything I can do before that, contact me directly.”

      I don’t bother to nod.

      Everyone speaks on my behalf now anyway. They speak about me like I’m not in the room.

      I’m not here.

      I close my eyes and allow the pills I’ve just taken to help me drift away again.

       Day two.

      Sleep. Nothing but sleep, and pain, and disturbed dreams.

       Day three.

      There’s a knock on my door, and I close my eyes. Mum enters. I know it’s her from the perfume scent and the effortless, perfect way she glides in and sits without disturbing a thing. After a while, she speaks.

      “I know you’re awake.”

      I keep my eyes closed.

      “That was Tina at the door. Tina from Highland Castle. She was asking for you. It took a lot for her to come here, especially with, you know, them outside. She knew you wouldn’t want to see her. She just wanted to give you these.”

      I open my eyes and see a box of pretty cupcakes. Pink, lilac, blue and yellow, with glittery edible flowers and butterflies on top.

      “She said her daughter made them for you. You can eat one this week,” she says, trying to make that sound fabulous.

      One luxury a week is all a Flawed is allowed to have. It is part of the basic living we must abide by, so that we can purify ourselves. We must eat staple foods, nothing luxurious or fancy, nothing considered unnecessary for our bodies, for our life. Basics. Our intake is measured at the end of every day by a test I’ve yet to experience.

      “And she brought you this, too.” Mum hands me a bag.

      It’s a Highland Castle tourist shop paper bag, which I feel is highly inappropriate. СКАЧАТЬ