The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson

Author:Andrew Davidson [Davidson, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Romance, Contemporary, Historical, Adult, Paranormal, Horror
ISBN: 9788804590859
Google: 7HRRPwAACAAJ
Amazon: 8804582804
Barnesnoble: 8804582804
Goodreads: 2595138
Publisher: Doubleday
Published: 2008-08-04T23:00:00+00:00

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A major complaint of burn survivors is that only one pressure suit is covered by insurance, despite the fact that these garments cost thousands of dollars and must be worn up to twenty-three hours every single day. During the other hour, the patient is being cleaned, and if the caregiver is already busy washing the patient, how can she or he also be cleaning the pressure suit at the same time? This is why it’s essential to have at least two. “But the cost!” cry the insurance companies as they deny the claim. Furthermore, even with proper care pressure garments last only about three months.

Insurance companies were not a problem for me, as my costs were being covered in full by Marianne Engel. But I had to wonder, briefcase of cash under the skeleton bed or not, how could she afford this? She kept reassuring me that her prominence as a carver had left her amply rewarded and that there was nothing she’d rather spend her money on. I was unsure but even if I tried to argue, what would be my case? That my scars should go untreated?

My pressure suits and mask were finally ready in mid-March. When Sayuri handed them over, I could immediately appreciate all the work that had gone into them. The mask had been sanded down so that it would sit comfortably along the contours of my face. Sayuri even pointed out how the students had paid special attention to where my scars were raised above the skin’s surface, and had prepared the plastic accordingly.

“You’ll need to use this as well.” Sayuri held out a spring-loaded contraption. The way my face had been burned left me particularly susceptible to oral commissures—scar tissue around the corners of my mouth—which, if not treated, would make it difficult for me to eat or speak in the future. After I had properly wedged the retractor into my mouth, I raised the mask to my face. It was to remain in place all the time, except during cleaning and skin care, even while I was sleeping. I asked Marianne Engel how I looked (in the process discovering that the retractor made my already garbled voice sound even worse) and she answered that I looked like a man who was going to live for a long time.

I looked into the mirror. As if the scarred topography of my face were not enough, it was now smashed flat by the clear plastic. The areas that were normally red had turned white under the pressure and the retractor had peeled my mouth outwards in a grotesque grimace. Every imperfection was amplified, and I looked like the bastard child of Hannibal Lecter and the Phantomess of the Opera.

Sayuri assured me that a poor first reaction was normal, because all burn patients—including me, despite being specifically told otherwise—assume that the mask will hide their faces. But it did not. It would not shield me and help me cope; it was a Petri dish that would place my face under the microscope of the world.

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