‘Skin Deep’
Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He creates oil paintings, illustrations, ceramics and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries throughout Maine. To view his online portfolio, visit @donald.patten on Instagram.
Skin Deep
Before sunlight blooms like ink of gold, sliding gently down the peeling wallpaper, I cup icy water in my palms and splash it across my face. My fingers tug roughly through the oily, tangled mess of hair, binding it into a tight ponytail, hiding the jagged edges my birther sculpted with scissors in a soused breath. From the patchy jacket buried deep in the hollow of my mattress, I slip out the small, stubby tube. I’d found the concealer a month ago, lying discarded in the sidewalk’s grooves beneath flickering streetlights. I glanced around cautiously, my heart quickening, before slipping it into my pocket with practiced silence.
When I first pried it open, a rancid odor rushed out—sharp and sour as if it had spent weeks festering in a gutter. Still, I pressed a finger into the gritty, hardened cream, spreading it gently across the bruise blooming on my cheekbone. The color didn’t match my skin, but I kept smoothing, blending feverishly until friction flushed my face enough to blur the bruise. With leftover smears of cosmetic residue, I traced carefully over the red, webbed tracks along my arms, muting them to an ashen gray.
It was a game my father and I once shared. I remember the looping swoop of my stomach, lagging just behind reality, as fractals spilled vibrantly into my vision, blooming in colors too intricate to name. His hands moved through the air like a conductor guiding an invisible symphony, melodies threading softly through our small room, endless and warm. I lay supine on the carpeted floor, fibers prickling my back, waves of warmth and nausea rippling through me. The colors swirled gently, fracturing softly like sunlight on water, holding me in their fragile embrace. The ground beneath tilted, lulling me into its strange rhythm, comforting in its unreality.
It ended abruptly, in flashes of blaring lights and sharp raps of men’s fists against our door. My birther shoved me roughly behind her, murmuring jaggedly as she squeezed my shaking limbs into a threadbare towel, eyes darting nervously toward the baggie she’d flung into the sink. For weeks afterward, my eyes spun feverishly beneath closed lids, ribs bound tight enough to suffocate. I hungered painfully for the fractured rainbows, my body convulsing under the relentless gallop of my heart. I hated her for stealing him away, for tearing apart the rare moments when his presence had felt warm and real. Even after he was gone, the phone’s mechanical bleating echoed unanswered through our house, my birther’s limp body sinking deeper into the poisoned sleep that had once consumed her.
Now I snap the concealer shut, prying open a broken compact hidden beneath red-printed cushions, painting soft pink disks of blush across my cheeks. The cracked, foggy mirror catches my eye, and for a moment I glimpse a younger, gentler version of myself, untouched by fury, cheeks brushed rosy by my birther’s gentle hands humming a lullaby about fields of stars. In those fleeting memories, my father’s laughter still echoes warmly through our walls as he teased her off-key singing, the smell of burnt toast from his kitchen experiments drifting lazily through the air. The change had come quietly, almost imperceptibly at first. Her humming turned bitter, her gentle caresses twisted into slaps. His laughter dulled, his playful experiments replaced by the cold quietness of needles.
On some evenings, my birther stumbles to the yellowing couch, amber beverages pouring messily into her mouth, open and hungry like a chick awaiting its mother. Weak static murmurs from the television as the sharp malt of alcohol clings thickly to the air. Later, when a muted glow seeps through cracks in my door, she teeters toward me, skeletal fingers curled into talons, eyes ballooned in wrath, face twisted grotesquely as flecks of sour spit punctuate her screams. I never quite remember when her fury subsides to only wake later, curled tightly around bruises blooming fresh and violent beneath sweat-slick clothes.
Today, I peel away fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin, tracing carefully over fresh bruises, and purple constellations charted across my ribs. No need to waste makeup on what clothes can conceal. Instead, I sling my bookbag onto my shoulder, glancing briefly at the small, blotchy mirror hanging askew by the door. My reflection stares back, half-mended.
Quietly, carefully, I inch toward the door, dawn’s first tentative rays bleeding softly through its cracks. Behind me, my birther snores gently, her body slack and vulnerable against the couch cushions. With a deep breath, I twist the handle and step outside, morning air settling sharply in my lungs. As the school bus rounds the corner, headlights cutting through the haze, I step forward into the cold.
Annie Zhu is a student at Westwood High School in Austin, Texas. Her writing explores nuanced emotional experiences and personal narratives through introspective prose. Annie's work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, district-level competitions, and has appeared in literary journals including E&GJ. In her free time, Annie loves to bake desserts, attempt overly ambitious DIY projects, and collect oddly-shaped shells.
