Tomato Face

The words floated off of the small, cracked screen, waltzed their way into my brain and sank to my throat. I played it off. “She seriously can’t argue against me so she insulted my appearance” I could feel my heart beating against my skull and the words felt like cotton being pulled out of my mouth. I gently grazed my cheek with the back of my hand and lingered on the sore bumps.

It was hours after that awful text yet the words still hung around me like a gloomy cloud. They spun around doing a beautiful dance in my head as they tortured me. They filled my brain like a swarm of unrelenting gnats prancing a fire. Bright.

I studied my face in the mirror. The rest of the house was dark and still, but in that bathroom my head was spinning with anger and my thoughts were anything but quiet. In my head I had already woken up the neighbors. I was yelling at my mom. I was yelling at the person on the other side of that phone. I was yelling at my doctor. I stared until the room went black around me. I stared until my face became distorted. Red.

I gave it a rest. Staring wouldn’t help, washing wouldn’t help, caking it all on wouldn’t help, and surely stressing so much over it wouldn’t help. The next morning I found myself leaning into the mirror so close I could hardly see myself for the fog. Staring, again. I drop into my chair at the breakfast room table. And I stare at the bright red fruit. Tomato.

“I need you to make me an appointment for the dermatologist.” I say as nonchalantly as possible as I begin my breakfast. “Is something wrong?” my grandma’s consoling voice suddenly strikes a bad chord in my brain and I snap. “Look at me. Does it look okay?” It wasn’t her fault but it wasn’t mine either and I needed an outlet. “I’ll get you one as soon as I can” she said coolly.