Under My Skin. Zoe Markham

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СКАЧАТЬ I soak my flannel in the mineral-enriched water, and lay it over my face, recharging it every few minutes as much for something to do as anything else. The heat of the water feels good on my back and legs, and after my meal and my soak combined I feel better than I have done all day as I shower off and then towel myself dry. Better than I have done in months. If I could feel like this all the time, I don’t think it would be so bad. It would be maybe a little easier to forget about things, at least. Not thinking might come a bit more naturally. I keep wondering if I should ask Dad if he can make me a pill for that.

      When I finally part company with the water there are two creams I need to douse my skin in. The first one’s fine, it’s just one of those water-based over-the-counter moisturisers. The second is a nightmare; it’s thick and oily and takes forever to sink in. And the smell, god. If there was one reason I had to give for why I’ll never be able to get a boyfriend, it’s this. No one in their right mind would want me sliding into bed next to them in this state. And the worst part of it is that if I don’t use the cream, I’ll look even worse in the morning. Even more of a monster. Damned if I do…

      Of course, there’s really a much bigger and more obvious reason for why no one would ever want to be with me than the smell and state of my skin, but it’s never going to come to that anyway, so why worry.

      Dad’s tried but he hasn’t been able to do much to help with the scar. I wipe the condensation from the mirror over the sink, and there it is, plain to see even in my horribly blurred reflection: a raised, white, jagged reminder, running across the bridge of my nose, over my eyelids, and then out in almost a straight line to just above both my ears. It runs further, but my hair hides the rest. It kind of looks like I’m wearing these weird comedy glasses, only it’s really not funny. I hate looking in the mirror, I don’t know what possessed me to wipe it. It starts playing in my head again. Glass flying towards me, shattering as it finds my face. I don’t feel it slice my skin open, the pain comes much later, now there’s only the warm wetness of the blood and the coppery taste of it as it fills my mouth. I smell the rain, mixing in with the burnt, rubbery tang of shredded tyres, and I hear the sick cacophony of crying and screaming and twisting metal, and then that awful silence that followed. The silence is always the worst part. The silence means she’s gone. And this is the moment, right there, when my world ended.

      I turn away, too late. Seeing the glass of the windscreen in the glass of the mirror like that, well, it’d mess with anyone’s head, I think. I’m frightened I’ll totally lose the plot if I look for long enough. Why would I want to look, anyway? I’m a twisted, broken mess. If I don’t see myself, I can sometimes almost convince myself, just for a little while, that I’m not a freak – a perversion of nature – a nightmare in my own right. When I see myself, I don’t know what I am. It’s better not to look.

      Dad said it’s a miracle my eyes made it. I used to feel sick thinking about what it would have been like to come back like this, but not to have my sight. It’s the only way I can imagine my world could be any darker. But now, a lot of the time I wonder if it would have been a blessing in disguise. See no evil… it works the same for ‘see no freak’ I’d imagine.

      After the cream, it’s time for my all-important injection – the one thing keeping my body under the illusion that all is well – before a variety of tablets get chased down by my bedtime cuppa. I hate injecting. I mean, I get that no one would enjoy it, but I really, really hate it. My hand shakes so badly when I push the needle in. I make a right mess of it. It almost doesn’t hurt when Dad does it, but I know I have to get used to it, especially with him starting work tomorrow; tonight though, I wimp out at the last minute. I clamber into a clean pair of PJ bottoms, pull on two pairs of thick socks and a fresh hoodie, scoop up my portable medkit – which is basically an enormous, glorified makeup bag filled with all the twisted things I need to keep myself alive and kicking – and head downstairs to find him.

      The kitchen’s sparkling, and the living room’s empty. I really don’t want to go down any further; I’ve had enough of basements to last me a… Well, a good long while.

      It’s either that, or a shaky-handed skin-stab, and I sigh as I slowly make my way down the narrow staircase.

      ‘You know,’ I say, picking my way across the cold stone floor and wishing I’d gone for an unprecedented three pairs of socks, ‘the living room up there is huge, and there’s masses of room in the kitchen, or even the hallway in that little eaves-y bit under the stairs. Why do you want to hide away down here like some kind of… mole martyr.’

      He’s in the middle of hooking his computer up, and he laughs as I curl up on the big, flattened cardboard box next to his desk, enjoying the minor respite from the damp flagstones. ‘It’s freezing down here, and it smells… funny.’

      ‘You know what would smell even funnier?’ he asks, not laughing any more. ‘If someone dropped by unexpectedly, to welcome me to the area, or read the meter, or who knows what else, and while they’re standing in the hallway they catch sight of this lot.’ He points to a towering pile of battered files, and a whiteboard covered in sprawling equations.

      ‘So?’ I shrug. ‘It’d look like you’re a scientist, which you are. No biggie.’

      ‘Well, it would depend how closely they looked, wouldn’t it?’ he counters. ‘And whether or not they recognise what they’re seeing. We can’t be too careful, how many times do I need to say it? I just don’t see the point in taking any chances, Chlo, not when we’ve come this far.’

      ‘I suppose,’ I concede, yawning as I hand over my kit and raise my hoodie to expose my stomach, hoping my ‘please do this for me, you know I hate it’ pitiful expression will do the trick. He tuts at me, but does the honours all the same.

      ‘You know you’re going to have to –—’

      ‘Yes, I do know,’ I snap, cutting him off. ‘Just… not tonight, ok?’

      I stay put and watch him work for a while, knowing he won’t let me help with anything because he’s totally OCD about everything being in exactly the right place. And given that every file, memory stick, and hand-scribbled equation down here is because of me, I’m not going to be the one to disturb any of it.

      It’s pretty hard not to think about the vaccine in here. That’s probably the real reason I don’t want to be down here. I’d be a psychologist’s dream right now. We’ve got so little of it left. I look over to see the case he keeps the vials in, and there are so many empty slots that my insides turn around and I start up a slow, cold sweat. I can’t function if I let that particular thought roam free in my head – the obvious one – What’s going to happen when it runs out? See, that’s the most messed up thing about it all: I can’t even say to myself, Well, you’ll die Chlo, and that’ll be that, because it’s a million miles from being that simple. I have something arguably worse than death to look forward to.

      Dad’ll find a way to make more before we run out. Of course he will. However clueless he can be at emotions and life in general, he’s a genius in the lab; the Agency proved that. They don’t hire anyone who isn’t a total Einstein. It’s a shame that they don’t actually treat their Einsteins a little better while they have them, but then isn’t that always the way. I reckon you’re far better off being completely mediocre in this life – that way, people don’t notice you, don’t expect anything of you, and tend to just leave you alone. You stay under the radar, and you really can’t go wrong. That’s what I’m all about now: staying under the radar.

      ‘Chlo, you’re making me nervous,’ Dad mutters, tugging a little too forcefully on some cables under the desk. ‘Plus you’re right, it is cold down here, and I haven’t got to grips СКАЧАТЬ