Flesh Failure by Sèphera Girón

I’m not alive anymore. I’m just a collection of rotting meat.” I turned from Charlotte. She touched my arm.
    â€œI didn’t want to hurt you, Aggy, that’s why I didn’t tell you. We thought it better if we just disappeared.”
    â€œThat’s only part of it, the smell. The rest is that they are afraid of me. Of the sewn-together creature who can speak. Did they not understand how grateful I was? How you took me from the streets and gave me a home. I am grateful to you all, I would never hurt you. Don’t be afraid of me.”
    Charlotte nodded.
    â€œI-I…need to go,” she muttered. “I have to work…” I watched her eyes glancing worriedly at the passersby, as if being seen with me would paint her with a brush of pariah. I might be an outcast even among the outcasts, but she still lived and breathed in this world. I couldn’t let her world fall away because my feelings were hurt.
    Life was hard enough for the girls without me destroying it more.
    â€œGo, Charlotte,” I said. “Tell them not to be fearful. I won’t acknowledge any of you again, and you can work Whitechapel. I won’t bother you.”
    Charlotte nodded, her lips trembling, tears welling in her eyes. She averted her gaze, as if looking upon my face was a torture she could no longer endure. She scurried off into the night.
    Rage filled me. I stomped along the cobblestones, pushing past people roughly, not caring if my shawl fell from my face to show the criss-cross of scars that adorned me. In the darkness, most people refused eye contact as a rule, never wanting to meet the eyes of a robber or a rapist. My face frightened those who saw me, perhaps even saving me from one filthy dodger who seemed poised for some kind of attack. His dark eyes glittered in the night as my face appeared under the lamplight. His mouth opened in an “o” and he turned. He pushed his way frantically through a man and woman engaged in rapid conversation and then a group of four women, likely maids finished with their shifts. In his haste to hurry away, he narrowly escaped being hit by a carriage. The idea of him squashed under the hooves of two horses amused me and soothed the sting of my anger for a moment.
    I continued on, the crowds of the day long gone, stragglers making their way home. There was no denying the chill in the air even through my many layers.
    My anger was dissipating, my pace slowed and I pulled my scarf back over my head, more for warmth than to worry about the staring. I grew more aware of where I was. I stood in front of the storefront where the Elephant Man had been displayed. There was still a paper stapled to the storefront, although the windows and doors were boarded up. Perhaps they had always been. I stared through one of the slats of the boards, through the dusty window but could see nothing. There was no light in the darkness for me to see as if I was only looking at myself.
    That man, that monster they had called him. He had something wrong with him and the doctors couldn’t help him. I heard he was in the hospital. I turned around and stared at the long, gated grounds of the hospital. The Elephant Man was likely in there somewhere, haunting the hallways, mourning for a normal life.
    I realized that I too longed for a normal life. There was no reason for me to grind my life in poverty. My creator had only thrown me away because he thought I was dead. If he could see what a success his experiment truly was, he could take me around the world, showing me off.
    Who was he?
    Where would I find him?
    I sat down in the doorway of Joseph Merrick’s sideshow emporium for a moment and ignored the foul stench of urine as I took the packet of cards from my pouch. The cloth came apart quickly despite my cold, clumsy fingers. The cards nearly leapt into my fingers. My legs throbbed. I realized I had been walking around all day, agitated and annoyed. I had a lot of money on