“Mótina, may I be excused from the table?”

“Wha’ for?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You can’t contro’ youself?”

I shook my head miserably.

“Den hurry up.”

There was a golden oval tray on the dressing table in my mother’s bedroom. On it, one invariably found an imitation turn of the century brush, mirror and comb set that she had purchased for twenty books of green stamps many years ago, orderly arranged on either side of a powder compact like a fork, spoon and knife. I locked the bathroom door, sat down on the toilet, leaned forwards and backwards with my arms hugging my abdomen, but the sensation was not going away.

I took in a deep breath, prayed to God for courage, and with my mother’s mirror sought the source of agitation below. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I consulted the other face of the mirror until I was sure a trick wasn’t being played on me. The two tender lips of my childhood had opened like a steamed clam and in-between, an excess growth of newborn flesh similar to a turkey’s crest ostentatiously proclaimed its status. Its colouring was that of a rooster’s comb. Multiple folds gave it the look of a sluggish, defenceless mollusk, just homely enough for people to consider a refined morsel, much like escargots, mussels, oysters and other bite-sized, boneless seafoods for which they are willing to pay great sums.

The crest separated into two smaller flaps, well done and crinkly like bacon around the edges. I moved them up and down like airborne wings, stretching them out to their full wingspan. They were covered with permanent goose bumps which was proof that the material for this part originated from the plucked members of the fowl family. A small patch of hairs had grown nearby, curly as a lambs. The outer lips were browned at the edges as though they had undergone a light roast in the oven. I opened them like a dissected frog. I knew it! The inside was less cooked! It was exactly that red called medium rare, like the roast beef I had eaten on Thursday night. There was a brown opening to the very back, well done and stringy like the veal I’d also eaten not so long ago at Ursula’s. How fascinating: below, one found patches of the exact same skin as that which lines the interior of our mouths; not surprising, then, it was constantly feeling something similar to hunger.

The more I looked down at the mirror, the more I found the composition prehistoric. It was the skin and flesh of seven animals without the brains of a single one; if they were under my brain’s jurisdiction, it certainly didn’t show. I removed a needle from a Holiday Inn sewing kit and gave each meat a prick. I couldn’t believe it. Each prick hurt me! So they, all seven distinct fleshes, were me.

I hoped baptizing it would help and drew a palm of cold water from the tap, sprinkling it with the hopeful drops. At first, it did quell the hot tempers, but soon enough the beastliness resumed. I flicked it with a comb. It made me jump with pain, but it throbbed and enjoyed the attentions all the more.