Burning Mustard
November 28th 2007 04:44
I was aware that Comlesh was a particularly ruthless masseuse, but I was not prepared for what followed.
I lay lie a piece of meat as Comlesh traced her pattern into my body. She slowly worked her way up my body, massaging my neck and gradually sweeping her fingers toward my face. I begrudgingly allowed her to apply the ointment and gentle massage to my face, even the affected areas, assuming her touch would be soothing on the burning skin that was left. Inexplicably, and utterly intolerably, she applied a type of mustard oil to my nose, its ominously pungent odour hinted at its acerbic nature. She began to roughly rub the contours of my face causing the crumbling flakes of skin to rasp against her finger tips excruciatingly. When the mustard oil was absorbed by the raw layer of nerves underlying the dead peripheral skin, the stinging qualities of the ointment made itself known.
The affect of the scalding oil was not instant. By the time it felt as though a small bushfire was raging across my face, she had finished her torturous work and left the room. Too angry and hurt to speak, lest I burst into tears and further humiliate myself, I got dressed, donned my cap, pulled it low and strode out without a word. As I left the door, I glance to Alicia sitting on the porch, awaiting her session.
“How did you go?” She asked, concerned at my awkward aloofness.
“Shithouse” I murmured, turning away from her to hide my face and walking away toward the gate “I will see you back at the Ashram”.
My unstable emotional state would have been readily apparent, and I felt my mortification at my repulsive visage feed off the thought that they would discuss my problem in my absence. I hurried home and locked the door. I needed to wash off the oil at once, but it couldn’t be done with pressure or haste. I lightly doused the areas with cool water. I took two Panadol and read in bed, my only solace an absorbing book to keep my mind away from the pain and the awareness of my new hideousness.
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