White Girl

I had a job interview to go to that morning, and I was nervous. It had been a while since I'd last interviewed, and I didn't feel too confident. Plus I hadn't slept very well the whole night because I was worried I'd oversleep. A hundred thoughts were running through my mind when I noticed my arms.

Milky white discolourations were splattered all over my arms, like paint splashed upon a canvas by a bohemian artist. The pigmentation was fresh, I could see its sleepy pink borders inflamed upon my skin. The blotches looked violent, like an invasion racing up my arms to my face. I could hardly breathe. These were not my arms, they couldn't be, what happened, how did my skin get assaulted overnight??

Then I noticed my legs.

The same discolouration. The same insanity. An overnight conspiracy. Oh God. Oh God. Whose legs are these?

My breath cut my throat like a razor, my mind raced like an overheated car engine, my dry eyes burned from the lack of sleep suddenly set ablaze with hot panic.

My job interview! How can I step out like this?? People will stare at me, they'll think I'm a filthy freak. They'll look away when I catch them staring at the ugliness I want to hide. No one will shake hands with me or sit near me. How will I try on clothes in trial rooms, they won't let me with these frightening marks on my body. They'll think I'm unclean, contagious, infested with bacteria or fungus. Will I have to wear full sleeves and full pants forever? Do I have any full sleeved and full length clothes that I can wear to my interview right now?? Oh God, what is going on, how will I step out, I have no control over this body that's been hijacked that I'm a prisoner in...

I wake up drenched in sweat. I have an interview to go to. I look at my arms and my legs. They are like they've always been. I feel so depressed for Michael Jackson who died two weeks ago.