'You look alright. I heard your face had melted.' Cue melting face hand gestures and pointing. Then, as if I hadn't heard the poisoned barb the first time, 'you look fine. I heard you'd...you know. Melted. Your face.'
At this point most people met with stony silence would realise the faux pas and back slowly out the door. They'd plead for forgiveness. Make some effort to retract such a statement. Instead the poisonous witch looked at me quizzically, as if perhaps it was I who had some social problem.
My mind filled the silence that followed with a montage of images: having my face debrided (scraped;) the white V for Vendetta burn mask; the mirrors being taped up; trauma counseling to quell the dreams of melted, blurry faces and no reflections; not to mention the hours and hours and hours of 'face-care;' careful massaging and creaming.
I healed well. I know I'm lucky. I only have a couple of faint scars under my chin, on my lip and forehead. Yet I still fear the loss of my face; it very nearly happened. I don't need to be reminded of that ever, ever again, thank you.
That witch has flown (off on her broomstick) and left behind only a trace of bitter spell. She probably hasn't given our encounter a second thought. But...I won't be forgetting in a hurry and I won't be welcoming her again. Life is too short to fill it with poison.
