No. 4: βπ π
βCall a medic!β your makeup artist says to the PA. The poor girl scrambles for her walkie and crackly white noise fills the trailer. βMedic to makeup, medic to makeup, please.β
You sit there mortified that all this fuss is about you.
βDonβt worry, hon,β Makeup pats your hand. βWeβll get this taken care of.β
You are not reassured. God, is it that bad? You peel back the foil of your breakfast sandwichβslab of cheddar on fried eggβbut Makeup asks if you can wait til sheβs done. You tuck the foil around a sourdough corner, stomach growling something fierce.
Medic arrives, letting in the cold fog of morning.
βThis puppy right here,β Makeup says to him, pointing at you. He looks blank until his eyes register the puppy in reference: your big, red, throbbing pimple. Puppy the Pimple sits proudly on your chin, volcanic, yet not ready to burst. It might as well be taking up the whole right side of your face.
Medic unpacks tools meant for burn injuries and stunts gone awry. βDonβt worry,β he says. βWeβll suck him right out.β Again, you are not reassured.
A syringe is lifted. Alcohol swabbed. Nausea claws your fingernails into vinyl armrests as you brace for the needlβOUCH! How can they call pain blinding when it pops your eyes wide open? Youβre not crying but tears splash onto the foil of your plate so hard that droplets hit your wrist.
βAlmost done,β Medic says, still poking into the screaming part of your face that feels like an exposed nerve being pierced with all the patience of Job.
He withdraws at last. If Puppy was throbbing before, now heβs pulsating like a strobe light of pain at an S&M rave. βWanna see the gunk?β Medic says. Blood and pus squirt onto a paper towel, like a Ken doll cum shot if Barbie was on her period.
The dome on your chin is even bigger than before. Ooze wants to scab but Makeup keeps dabbing more concealer. Powder, concealer, powder. Like a layer cake that wonβt set. βWell, weβll keep an eye on him,β she says, giving up.
βCan I eat now?β you ask. She nods. Your sandwich is cold, soggy with fake butter and limp bacon. You eat it anyway, ignoring the ache that has spread from your chin to your jaw.