The doctor writes a prescription for some creams and hands me the piece of paper. I look over to my husband, who is still staring at the picture of the woman; observing how the mammary glands attach to the tissue, how the pelvis holds up the spine, how the feet connect to the floor. Watching the woman with eyeballs exposed peer off wide-eyed into the distance. What could she be looking at, that skinless wonder?
There's something wonderfully eerie about this short story by Imogen McCluskey. She has an evocative style, one that unravels beautifully as a woman slowly succumbs to a mystery illness in the French suburbs. The only thing about this piece is that I wish there was more of it.
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