I have a face like a bowl of worms. Squirming around the ticks, the scars, the moles. It's disgusting. A face like this. It's absurd, without meaning or purpose. And I honestly can't say if I'm an experiment gone awry or if I was just born this way. I have no origin. I have no memory. I can only remember you. The way you looked at me, the first time you saw me, it was like you saw the bowl underneath the worms. It was like-- Your face was like a china plate. Perfect. Whole. Pristine. And you looked at me, the way you looked at me—
The patient had died. That much I remember. His wife was wailing but I couldn't hear her. Because you were there and everything else melted away. "Let's have a drink," you said with your face like a plate. And we drank and we drank and we went to your place and we made love like normal people. And it continued that way for days, weeks, years. I can't say for sure.
I'm not sure I can pinpoint the second, the moment you grew tired of me. I can't pinpoint the moment I became what I am. Your body was like liquor and I couldn't get enough of it, couldn't spend a night without you. I didn't know you weren't drunk on me. I didn't see the signs. I should have seen-- How could I have missed the diagnosis? How could I have avoided the bald shock, the morning discovery, to wake up and find your note.
And now I can't remember anything except you. You will pay. Everyone will pay. You will all pay dearly.