When my face started peeling, I thought it was the new face wash I had recently bought. My friend recommended it, and it was rated 10.0 on the best of lists on several websites.
I was disappointed because the few times I used it, I really liked it, but I couldn’t chance it, so I threw the cleanser in the trash.
Two days later, my face was still peeling, and it was much worse. It was so dry, the texture akin to snakeskin. I racked my mind for a possible cause, but couldn’t think of any.
Not only did it look disgusting, but it itched like absolute hell. I found myself scratching absentmindedly.
I scratched so hard that I drew blood. I only noticed when I glimpsed my red fingertips. My nail beds were clogged with chunks of skin.
I finally realized that something was very wrong when I went to get my hair done.
I went to my stylist to get my standard summer box braids. When she was done, she dipped my braids into a boiling pot of water and carefully wrapped my hair in a towel so I wouldn’t get burned.
When she took the towel away, she gasped, and my heart thumped painfully.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.
I snatched her mirror off the table and peered at my reflection.
I screamed.
Every braid had come out of my head. Some clung to my scalp hanging by bloody, viscous threads.
I watched as a trail of dark blood slowly dripped from my skull and trickled down my nose.
I slammed down the mirror and ran outside to my car. I blocked the stylist as she repeatedly called me to ask for payment.
By the time I got home, all of my hair was gone–every single strand and most, if not all, of my scalp.
My skin fell off in long bloody strips. My face formed boils that burst and spurted foul yellow pus. My eyes, which have always been my best feature, were now wet with thick mucous and yellow, like the eyes of a reptile.
I looked into those eyes. My once beautiful eyes and
Oh my god, I remember.
It was a memory I had tossed aside because I didn’t deem it important to remember.
My cousin’s birthday was a week ago. She had always been into that mystic, spooky bullshit.
The woman she hired referred to herself as a spiritualist. She told us we were going to host a seance. She ignored my laugh and the roll of my eyes.
We lit red candles and turned off the lights, and then we sat in a circle and held hands.
The Spiritualist started chanting, and it made me uneasy. When I opened my eyes, she was staring at me.
I had drank quite a bit, and it annoyed me I had to sit through this shit, so childishly I stuck my tongue out at her.
She kept looking at me, but I refused to back down.
And then she smiled, and everything went black.
I was trapped in a sea of fire, and everything was burning.
I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut. My skin bubbled, blackened, and peeled.
I saw her then.
She had her back turned to me. She was tall and thin and had the most beautiful black hair I had ever seen.
And then she looked at me; I screamed. My fear wrenched my lips apart.
The woman had no face, and her skin was mottled blue, black, and gray.
She lurched towards me and tapped my forehead with a gnarled finger.
She caressed the contours of my cheeks, encircled the hollows of my eyes, and traced patterns on my lips.
She gripped the underside of my jaw, and with surprising strength, she sank her fingers into my flesh and tore my face off.
The world burned, and I screamed again. I never thought it possible to scream without lips.
She molded my face onto her skull and then she smiled at me!
My body sank into fire, and I burned.
When I awoke, I was on the floor, dripping wet and reeking of alcohol. My cousin and her friends surrounded me. They looked confused and concerned.
“What happened?” I asked, snatching the towel offered to me.
My cousin told me I had fallen and then started screaming. They didn’t know what to do, so she, my cousin, threw a glass of wine on me.
“Where the fuck is she?” I spat. I took out my compact mirror and vigorously checked my flawless reflection.
“Where is who?” My cousin asked.
“That bitch,” I said. “That spiritualist! She did this. She did something to me.”
My cousin looked at me as though I were crazy.
“There was no spiritualist here, Bree.” She gestured to her friends. “Just us.” She peered at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? I think you might have drank too much.”
I pushed past her to grab another glass of wine.
“No, the problem is I haven’t drunk enough.”
So, I drank more, and I forgot. I forced myself to forget.
I don’t believe in the supernatural, at least I never used to, but now, I am losing everything, so I believe.
I believe some ugly demon bitch has taken my face and given me hers.
Every time I look at my reflection, I cry.
What else do I have if I’m no longer beautiful? I am not known for kindness. My personality does not win me friends.
I have always been an indescribable beauty. The kind of beauty that countries go to war over. And now I am a monster because some jealous beast thing stole my fucking face.
I don’t know what to do anymore.
I am tired of crying. It hurts. My tears burn and make holes in my skin.
I’ve been holed up in my bathroom for days now. I broke my mirror with my fist and shattered it with my brittle bones.
There are shards everywhere—reflections of me. I can’t escape it. I can’t run from myself.
I give up. To you, you demonic bitch, congrats! You win!
I no longer want to see what I look like. I am tired of seeing my soul reflected back at me.
I want to see her again.
You know, for a final showdown. I want my face back! It’s mine! It’s always been mine.
She doesn’t come, though, and why would she?
I am so tired. I’ll close my eyes and rest for a moment.
I just want to sleep because if I sleep, then perhaps I will dream, and I will get lost in the memory of my beauty.