Some New Skin
I’m still at it, still working on my book. 60,000 words, 161 pages.
My main character, Charlie, has horrible skin on his face and back from the acne he endured as a young man. In an extremely short section I just finished, he describes the skin transplant operation he undergoes.
In darkness, I was peeled like a grape, my inner pulp squeezed from its sleeve.
Parsed away, the scarred me dropped into a medical waste bin, later emptied by a man I’d never meet.
My new skin slurped plasma while my old skin steamed up the inside of a bag, awaiting collection and incineration.
When the light returned, I lay on my belly, my face propped up by foam and tubes. The only sound I heard was the hum of negative pressure vacuum.
The room was empty, light blooming around every object. One radiant white chair sat empty in the corner. No half-finished cups of coffee or crumple magazines lay on the side table.
Were I able to move my face, I would have smiled.