I inherited my skin from my mother, whose face seemed to be formed by soft ocean waves and colored with blood from the finest white rabbit. The latter, I had neither. I was, and still am, mediocre in all other aspects of my appearance. In fact, it was only this poreless, smoothen-over cover that drew any semblance between me and her. Of course, not now. You would know, since she has sought your services.

Yes, I do. 

Growing up, I was a lucky child, I think — in both spirit and surface-level distinctions. My mood was like that of rosy cheeks on a hot summer’s day, and I avoided the toils of inflamed spots which many around me bore. 

“How do you do it?”  My less fortunate friends would ask. In response, I would flash a smile, showing off those perfect dips which hung around my lips, and something of the sort of “nothing special” or “by worrying little”. In truth, that was how I felt. Although I would never admit it, there was always this closeted prejudice within me. I wondered what these girls with ailed faces held in their hearts, with ugliness overflowing in the atriums that had seeped into the crevices of their skins. Though in some ways, this was also an exaggeration. I paid no mind to the imperfections of others — only that they were imperfect in comparison, and thus the greater part of my youth was spent in blissful indulgence.

Of course, after all my suffering I have grown less ignorant. I understand the causes of these imperfections, factors like hormones or environmental humidity no child could possibly control, but my younger self was sheltered in that way. Bear with me. 

And that was why the first marks caught me by surprise.

I still remember the scene vividly. It premiers in my mind every time I think I’ve forgotten. I had stripped down, ready to hop in the shower to wash off all the grime and tears I had shed during that day. I don’t really remember what had provoked such a reaction from me. I think it was… A failed audition? Or maybe a bad grade? I don’t really remember. I suppose it mattered then, but now all I remember was the blood that pooled at my feet inside the showers.

It was made of the same luster as the blood I had seen my mother shed. She was a seamstress, and as such was constantly subjected to sharp needlestick injuries and other similar afflictions. Yet every time she had gotten cut, she would always handle it so gracefully, that it felt less as an effort of self-preservation, but more as a performance. Yes, that’s where the description of “white rabbit’s blood” came from. It all just seemed so…pure.

Interesting, I was wondering where the choice of words came from. 

I know. It’s peculiar and entirely unwarranted, but that was the way I thought of it at that age.

As I was saying, the blood was not what surprised me. I, like any other teenage girl with a working reproductive system, knew exactly how to handle the situation. What had surprised me was that when I searched for the source, I found that it was not between my thighs, but instead somewhere much higher.
A red droplet splattered onto my hand.

I scrambled frantically to find where it fell from. Stomach, shoulders, arms. I patted my cheeks for feelings of wetness, and in the process, smudging it all with blood. 

At last, I opened the shower curtain and rushed to the mirror. And there it was, above my bloodied cheeks, a gash, squarely placed in the middle of my forehead, still oozing with crimson. 

Do you still remember what you’d been doing… Prior to showering?

Admittedly, no. My memory has always failed me, but nothing of the sorts which would have resulted in such a serious injury.

Yes, that was the first time. I do not remember what I did afterwards, only that I was in shock and I had managed to clean everything up again, because my mother never noticed. I dug out a roll of plaster from the depths of the medicine cabinet. In the days following, I made sure to 

How did you come up with “Tiger skin”? It doesn’t quite look like a tiger’s stripes to me. 

I didn’t. When my mom saw it. I think it was during the period where the freshly woven skin bulged out with plum growth. Once she finally saw it, she cried out in anguish, rubbing my arms obsessively with her fingers, feeling the hills and valleys that littered my skin, “Tiger skin”, she muttered under her breath.

The image of a tiger feasting on my body came to mind. Violent and primal, there was something about it… What was the word… Starts with a C.

Calming?

Emotional catharsis! Yes!

… Alright. I’m glad you had a method to release your emotions, even if it’s in that way. 

I don’t quite understand what you mean, but thank you. 

This disease… It’s peculiar. 

Sometimes I could feel the very moment the skin separated, sometimes it was so mild it took me days to notice. I sought treatment from the doctor, because at one point it got out of hand. Covered head to toe with dark gashes, I had to. But every time they’d dismissed my concerns. Every time! Can you go speak to these healthcare staff? Maybe they will take you more seriously than they ever took me. 

That is unfortunate.

And what compounded my frustration was other people’s treatment of me. I detested these marks. They restricted what I could wear, and on the days where I gave up and revealed them to the warm sun, I could always feel scornful contempt . And I would think, what do these people know about me? In those times I wished my nails would lengthen, grow into honed claws so I could pounce on them and curse them with my own affliction, so then they would feel what I feel. Of course, that never happened. 

That’s understandable

I knew that deep within their hearts they bore the same loathing, the same frustration. I could see it from the little imperfections of their appearance. I could see it ever since I was a child. And so it bothered me—that I was the only one at the receiving end of judgement. The only one who visibly presented as ‘sick

It’s not about being sick or healthy, I think. To some degree, everyone is ill. 

I am not ill! And I find it that insinuation to be deeply insulting.

Okay. We will work on this. 

I promise you, I play no part in the creation of these marks… Can you just do a write up on your paper? So we can all get this over with?

I’m afraid I cannot do that just yet, but feel free to continue with your frustrations. 

You said, with an air of amusement, and I knew you did not believe me. I knew then that I did not even believe in myself. 

Alright, continue?