Skin

“Sculpted” (2020), Nsey Benajah. Courtesy of Unsplash.
The sun hangs low in the sky like an overripe orange. You wish for a moment that you could reach up and pluck it, sink your teeth into it so you could taste something sweet, empty your mouth of the blood and dirt that has made a home there.
You used to bite your lip often as a child. You enjoyed the salty tang of your own blood. You would worry the irritated flesh until your skin broke, wait until it healed before doing it again. Sometimes you would grip bits of your loose skin and peel them back until you could see the pink underneath. Your mother would chastise you; rub ointment in to make it better, to soothe the ache.
You ache now. It starts in your chest and spreads like a spiderweb fracture. The pain of your bruised knees, your bloodied and broken nails, your tender ribs—nothing compares to the pain in your chest. You can’t breathe through it. It is as if a match has been lit between your ribs. The heat—the smoke—leaves you breathless. Your body is a burning house, and the windows are sealed shut. The fire has sucked out all the oxygen and left nothing but poisonous gas. Can you die of this? Can fear kill you?
You wonder if God is looking down on you now. What do you look like from that far above? You are lying in a patch of dry grass only a few feet away from the gate. No one ever cuts the grass here. The long blond strands tower and curl over you. The shade from the guardhouse keeps the glare from the hot afternoon sun off you. You had initially tried to hide in the guardhouse. What you found there curdled your stomach; led you here, trying to catch your breath.
When you were in primary school, your teacher gave you a science experiment to conduct at home. She told you to wet a piece of bread and leave it by the window. You watched mold take hold of the bread, grow and spread until there was nothing of the spongy whiteness left. You were curious about what else could grow moldy if treated the same way. You had pork chops for dinner one evening. When no one was paying attention, you took a pork chop and snuck it to your room. You kept it hidden under your bed until the meat began to rot. It never grew that blue-gray mold that fascinated you so much. It just got soft and gray, a milky film covering the expanse of it. Even then, it was the smell that got to you. There’s nothing quite like it—the smell of meat rotting in a humid room.
You can hear them in the distance. The individual screeches that come together to sound like a singular hum. You would call for help but there’s no one to answer. The farm is a twenty-minute drive from the closest town. You should move. You should get up and hide. But your body is heavy. It took you an hour just to get this far. You were flooded with relief when you saw the gate in the distance. You had thought, for a moment, that you were safe; that if you could get out onto the tar road, then surely someone would drive by eventually. But as you neared the fence, any hope of escape left you. A thick chain locked the gate shut. The padlock was warm to the touch when you tried to jerk it open. You scratched at it, broke your manicured nails. You tried to climb over the fence, but there was nowhere to put your feet. Even if you could have gotten to the top, barbed wire would keep you from scaling it.
Something told you to look behind you, but fear kept you facing forward. Your eyes focused on your dad’s casual gait, on the dust he unsettled as he walked. You were right at the top of the road when you looked behind you.
You were there when the security guard locked the gate and gave your dad the key. What was his name again? Alfred? He had a gap between his two front teeth and closed his eyes when he smiled. He’d asked you how school was. Asked you if you remembered him, in the good-natured way old family members do. You had nodded your head yes, even though nothing about him was familiar. You watched your dad hook the gate key to a lanyard with other keys. He shook them and laughed when they clanged together.
You know where the keys are. They’re in the dressing table cabinet by your dad’s side of the bed. Back at the farmhouse. Where you just came from. In your parents’ bedroom. Where their bodies are.
The screeching is getting louder. If you listen closely, you can hear crying. The workers live a couple kilometers away from the house, over a river and closer to the dam. There are always children crossing the little bridge over the river. They like to play in and around the water. From down there, you can’t see the house, the compound, or anything beyond it. The children wouldn’t have known. If any of the children were playing in the river, they wouldn’t have been able to see them coming.
You saw them. You were hiding in your parents’ wardrobe when they came in through the window. You didn’t want to wash the dishes after lunch. It seems so stupid now. You were hiding in the wardrobe—sitting on your mother’s shoes—when you heard the screeching. You thought maybe someone had left the chicken coop open by mistake and some chickens had escaped onto the front lawn.
Your dad started his chicken project late last year as a first step into his retirement plan. He was breeding them for their eggs. A few thousand chickens to start. When he took you to the coops, you were overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. They crowded together in little clusters. Some of them piled on top of each other.
Sharing warmth, your father told you.
They were bigger than you expected, with feathers the color of wet clay. Your father showed you a big, white bucket full of eggs. One stood out because it was smeared with blood.
We’ll have to kill the one that laid it, he said.
Why?
It must be sick. We don’t want the others getting sick too.
When you exited the coop, you spotted a brood of chickens behind the wooden door. They had dug a hole and were piled inside it. Every chicken in the pile was molting. Their feathers lay scattered around them. You could see the pimpled, pale skin of each chicken in that pile.
What’s wrong with them?
I’m not sure, your dad answered. It might just be stress.
Some chickens were allowed to spend the day outside the coop and in the sun. The yard in front of the coop was fenced off and locked from the outside. There were more chickens digging holes. You tried to count them all, but you couldn’t.
To the left of the yard was a single tap embedded in concrete. Your dad stood in the middle of the yard shielding his face from the hot sun. Sweat formed beads along his brow and neck. He was not yet dressed for the farm, still wearing half of his suit from the office.
You thought, for a wild moment, of course: even now, even like this, she would still be beautiful.
Open the tap, he said. I want to see if the water is back. There was a water cut earlier.
You skirted around clusters of chickens to reach the tap. It felt hot to the touch. You had to use the hem of your T-shirt to turn it. It took a moment, but soon cold water came gushing out onto the concrete. It pooled around your feet, and you wiggled your toes in relief.
The chickens around you startled and scrambled over your feet to reach the water. They pecked at the ground so hard that you worried for their beaks.
You can close it now, said your dad.
But aren’t they thirsty?
We gave them water earlier.
They looked thirsty to you, desperate in the way that they climbed over each other to reach the stream of cool water. You listened to your dad and closed the tap. All at once the clucking stopped. The chickens paused and, in unison, turned their heads towards you. You felt it then, a chill that ran up your spine. It felt like judgment.
Come on, let’s go. Your mother is making lunch.
Your dad led the way through the gate, locking it after you. The silence followed you all the way up the dirt road leading to the farmhouse. Something told you to look behind you, but fear kept you facing forward. Your eyes focused on your dad’s casual gait, on the dust he unsettled as he walked. You were right at the top of the road when you looked behind you. All the chickens, all of them, stood still in the yard. You were too far away to tell if they were looking at you, but you were sure they were. You watched them as they watched you, until you were both out of sight.
For lunch, your mother made chicken stew and rice. She dished it up for you, gave you your favorite pieces. You hesitated, fork and knife in hand, before you started eating. You watched your mother as she snapped a drumstick from its thigh and took a big bite. Your dad separated the skin from the meat with the end of his knife. He cut the meat into bite sizes before piercing it with his fork. They didn’t seem to think anything was wrong, but your skin still felt hot, felt tight and itchy in a way it never had before.
Is something wrong with the food?
No, Mama, it’s good.
You sliced into the thigh on your plate. When you finally took a bite, it was just as delicious as usual. You didn’t know why you expected it to taste differently. The typical saltiness filled your mouth, the same sweetness from onions and cooked-down stock. You ate and forgot, shook off the feeling of being watched. Just your imagination, you told yourself.
When you watched the chickens peeling back your mother’s skin, you marveled at how skin could give way so easily. You thought there’d be more resistance than that. How could beaks and claws do the same thing as a steak knife? You could not look away as one started to peck at her eyes—eyes that had dimmed long ago, thankfully. Her mouth hung open, stuck on a scream. You could still see the white of her teeth despite all the blood. Her hair, styled in braids, lay loose all around her. You thought, for a wild moment, of course: even now, even like this, she would still be beautiful.
You couldn’t see your father’s body. He had tried to open the gun locker. You had heard him lift the heavy latch, but the rifle wasn’t loaded. He taught you how unsafe that was. You should keep a gun unloaded with the bullets somewhere separate. You knew, without looking, that he was too slow. Too slow to load the ammunition. Too slow to escape the hundreds of chickens that flooded in through the bedroom and bathroom windows. He called your mother’s name right until the end. You wished it to be quick, but it wasn’t. You will never be able to unhear the sound of your mother’s name, broken and gurgled through a collapsing throat.
A memory sits just at the edge of your mind. It fades away and then comes back into focus every time you blink. It starts with the sun, hot on your belly. You remember the crystalline sky: a cerulean shade of blue that you thought only existed in boxes of crayons. You were floating on your back in the pool.
You are floating now.
The water is cold, and you shiver as you submerge yourself. But just when you think you can’t take the chill any longer, you are warm, warm everywhere the sun touches you. You think, I can fall asleep like this. You close your eyes. You feel water lapping over your collarbones, your stomach, your thighs and knees. You are sinking and don’t even realize it.
A pressure.
Someone lifts you above the surface. There is water in your eyes: red like the sky is blue. You don’t have to open your eyes to know that it’s your father. He brings you higher, suspends you above the water so that all of you is above it. You marvel at how you are still floating, even in air. His hands leave you, but not for long. You feel his hand in yours, free of the callouses you know should be there. Then the whole length of him lines up to all of you so that you are floating together. Higher, until all you can see is blue.

Vimbainashe Moira Mugweni
Publab Fellow 2024
Vimbainashe Moira Mugweni (@moiramugweni on socials) is a MA student in Literature at the University of Texas at Dallas. Her research interests grapple with issues of gender and sexual identity with a particular interest in BIPOC and African voices. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of the Witwatersrand where she was a Postgraduate Merit Award-Winner. In her free time, Vimbainashe self-publishes works of fiction for a wide audience of readers.