'The Spot' by Clare Cronin

I awoke this morning with an enormous spot on my cheek, it is huge and red. I daub it with hot water and tea tree oil in the hope it may go before the party this evening. I am loath to go out in public with such a blemish upon my face.

At lunchtime, despite the salad I have made, I find myself compelled to eat chocolate truffle cake smothered with cream. I feel as if I am feeding the blemish, which has grown in the hours since I awoke. It now covers my cheek and shines a brighter red than this morning, I feel it has still not yet reached the stage that could be called angry, rather it seems benign, happy to grow upon my visage.

At teatime I forsake the fresh pasta I have made for yet more cake and cream, It seems the pustule and I are developing an intimate relationship, I check on its growth regularly, as if it were a small child in need of protection. It has spread across my nose to my other cheek.

Preparing to go out I look in the mirror and see a shiny crimson creature with my eyes and my teeth.  The spot which was so much smaller this morning covers my countenance.  


The assimilation is complete. She has become the tiny pimple on my face, she appears angry.  I dress in my hosts clothes and make-up my hosts face. I am ready to go to the party.

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