Malleability

The experiments started when I was seven, but were galvanized by an incident that occurred when I was two years younger. Mum and I were watching Kristi Yamaguchi, perhaps one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, skate so awe-inspiringly that Mum and I elected to attempt to emulate the professional ice skater’s skill-set within the confines of both our athletic ability and our apartment’s kitchen. From what I recall of the incident, I merely slipped the wrong way, but from what Mum tells me (with a tinge of guilt that seems incapable of fading, regardless how many times I assure her that gravity is not, in fact, her fault) I was pushed before falling on my face and sliding backwards, tearing my skin from my face with enough force to nearly reveal the bone. I remember, too, holding the towel to my bleeding face as Mum worriedly assured me that all would be okay. I was not crying; I remember the night-time lights streaming by; the doctor smiling as he explained what they had to do to me; the itching of stitches; the hope I would still get to be the ringmaster in my pre-kindergarten class’ circus. I remember when we returned to the doctors to have my stitches removed, and the statement which would yield years of self-experimentation.

“If you’d not come back, they might have been absorbed into his skin!” the nurse exclaimed, shocked to see that a child would have healed twice as swiftly as they had estimated.

The scar, as my uncle hypothesized, has receded from the forefront of my chin to beneath it; sometimes it itches. According to an interview I heard years ago on NPR, itching is an instance of a miniscule agony; it is a pain so slight that it is instantaneously alleviated by pressure or a temperature shift, both of which may be provided by scratching. In general, my pain threshold is high enough that I often have no idea that I am hurt until I see that the area is swollen. In 2016 I contracted cellulitis, which is a staph infection of the muscle tissue. This type of infection is dangerous enough, as it is excessively difficult to eradicate due to staph’s rapidly mutating genetic material, but apparently there is a sharp increase in the disease’s ability to become fatal if it gets to the bone tissue. Cellulitis causes major swelling in the muscle tissue it infiltrates, and irritates the nerves in the skin of the area so that it becomes incredibly sensitive. When I awoke, devoid of the previous fever and headache I had tried to escape through sleep, and found my leg swollen, I believed that I had hit my leg on something in my sleep. It had happened before. When a week later I, straining to descend the stairs from my apartment, found myself nearly incapable of walking, I finally succumbed to my mother’s silent, steady, and stern pressure to go get it examined. The doctor told me that if I had come later, it may have become too severe a case to treat. She asked how I had been able to persevere despite the excruciating amount of agony I experienced. I smiled; pain is something I have always been able to endure. The physical kind, especially. Even now, when I get kicked or otherwise injured in a sparring match, it merely itches for a moment before fading away. I rarely have to even scratch; I can simply turn off the pain sensors in my skin and let the hurt evaporate. When I survey myself later, to insure there is no need to visit a hospital, I might wince, feeling flooded by a pain I had not previously experienced, but otherwise, for an injury to cause me great concern it must be at least muscle deep.

There are three main layers of the skin: the epidermis, that which we see without cutting into the tissue; the dermis, which contains the hair follicles and oil glands; the hypodermis, which holds the actual nerve endings. Of the three, the most prevalent layer ironically and thankfully can sustain the most injury. Piercing the epidermis, regardless of how deep, did not cause much agony, I learned. I could scratch my own skin until it bled without whimpering by the time I was nine, a skill it took me a year to master. This became helpful in removing the bumps on my knees, which I would learn after the fact were merely preparing for the onslaught of leg hair that I still find so uncomfortable. In high school, I started testing the malleability of my skin, seeing how far I could stretch it. My elbow skin extends, when pulled, approximately three inches from the bone. My knee skin does not pull far, but can be gathered in a neat bunch and tugged an inch from the flesh. What were referred to as “Indian burns” never worked on me in general, but I tested the elasticity of my skin with the help of a few classmates and found that my skin has a nearly perfect rotational malleability; it can be wrung like cloth and still snap back to its original shape. Holding onto me is nearly impossible; my skin apparently becomes slick with constant pressure. I have yet to determine whether this is due solely to my own oil content or that of the one holding me, or if there is some interaction between my skin’s natural oil and others’. Partially because of my twelve years of playing guitar, my fingertips are tough enough to endure machines meant to pierce them.

I have confronted my parents about my skin. When I was younger, I wondered about the topical aspects. Colour. Smoothness. Attractiveness. These were easily rationalized. Recently, I have asked after the elasticity, healing rate, and other such factors. Neither of my parents, nor theirs, has skin as stretchy as mine. Mum has a healing rate closer to mine than my father, so I presume the swift healing to be a maternal gift rather than one found on my Y-chromosome. The general durability I definitely receive from both; the toughness, however, comes from my father, particularly that at the ends of all twenty phalanges. My parents marvel at times at my skin, but they marvel at my existence anyhow, as only parents can. My peers are equal parts amused, terrified, disgusted, and intrigued by the pliability of my largest organ. I myself, knowing the location and origin of every scar and striation, cannot regard my skin with others’ awe. Separately, both my godmother and my uncle, both medically trained, concluded that I have psoriasis of some sort, but not severe enough to necessitate a doctor.

“My chest,” I have remarked often, “resembles a speckled horse.” It is only in the past year that I have stated such with sincerity and something more than acceptance in my smile.