Black and Blue
Her skin was definitely taking on a darker hue. It began
with the sides of the nose. She attacked what she took to be blackheads. She
scrubbed them with cleansing grains for open pores. She applied refining
astringemts. She redoubled her scrupulous facial cleansing night and morning.
She tried lemon juice to lighten the colour.
The darkening spread slowly, irregularly and ineluctably
out from her nose.
No-one appeared to notice.
Her teeth began to darken too. Light grey became dark
grey. Dark grey became black. They loosened somewhat.
She took to eating food which required no chewing: mashed
potato, potted beef, soft white bread, tinned rice pudding...
She avoided smiling, gave up singing, appeared morose as
she spoke less and less. Her eyes grew dim, though they often brimmed with
tears. She cried herself to sleep night after night.
Still no-one drew attention to what she thought was so
glaringly obvious. Tact, she supposed. - She consulted her doctor.
"You say you noticed a darkening from about six months
ago? Well I'm sure it's nothing serious. A bit too much sun, perhaps. - More
noticeable to you than to anyone else. - Take one of these tablets an hour
before you go to bed. - Come and see me again in about a month." Throughout his
monologue the doctor barely looked at her. His gaze and his attention were
elsewhere - on his desk? on his prescription pad? on his previous patient? on
his imminent lunch?...
She consulted a dentist: "Oh well, if it's been going on
so long it's probably psychological you know. Have you seen your doctor? What
about a psychiatrist?"
Were they all mad? Or was she going mad? Surely not. Her
face was almost black all over now.
She was having a light lunch at work, sharing a table
with another woman. She responded monosyllabically to the proffered
conversation. - Oh God! A tooth had finally detached itself! A thin,
coal-black, top front tooth plopped into the soup she was eating, and her
companion was splashed a little. Murmuring brief, embarrassed excuses, she
hurriedly rose and left the table.
It was a week to the day after this that her black face
fell off, also into the soup.
The bones revealed were black too.
She could not speak at all now, of course, without lips,
and with only a few back teeth; but with her shrunken black-furred tongue she
attempted to reply to people who, amazingly, continued to behave as if nothing
was amiss.
It was the winter that finished her off. Her head was so
very cold without the face. Every breath was a chill agony, though she tried to
protect the exposed bones by wearing a modified Balaclava helmet.
The remaining stumps of teeth were chattering
uncontrollably; there was a sudden "Snap!" and her head fell off.
It turned out to have been a hereditary problem. What
else can you expect when your name is Schwarzkopf?
Margaret Wilde © 1983
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