Pink Skin


If you have fingernails that claw, you’d harm her soft, pink skin. Touching her on the outside feels like grazing through the texture of your favourite paper. Brushing her delicate skin always makes hands itch, wanting for more. Often, you like to hold her with your fingers, spreading and stretching, as though taking what’s rightfully yours, when that isn’t the case. A bare hand makes so much love that it can conceal mistakes. It just depends on how you choose to see it.

They held her rounded body like it was playtime with his ball-toy. Who doesn’t like a clothed and layered body? The power of peeling leads to aggressive stripping, which results in metal pleasure. A human brain is capable of visualising (sexualising) exactly what he wants to. The result is materialistically more delicious.

Before his actions kiss reality, a clean strip of negatives of this blue film play in his head in slow motion. Negatives process at a consistent speed, keeping hopes active and erected. After bare hands excessively kiss and gawk at her flesh, her mass is measured, weighed and sliced. It is then placed in a prison pan before fidgeting to further instructions.

A recipe comes with a set of ingredients and a manual of the right steps to be implemented at the right time. This course works tricks for an impeccable plot of a crime scene. His hands move from the tip of her thin top to the bulge that follows at her bottoms. After caressing her pink skin, he strips her off the first layer. His hands fondle through another set of layers before actually, finally, getting to her insides. She sits there on the kitchen platform with the colour fading off her face. Sans her clothed layers, she looks pale and naked. The cabinet doors make noise, the steel vessels clash and add punk rock music to this crime scene. His hands resemble more of a murderer holding that knife, waiting to animalistically follow his instinct of dissecting her – fully, wholly. A surgeon could claim similarity here but his hands aren’t covered with gloves. It is an act, which holds his pride tall. Is this what male power feels like? His eyes look so innocent that when he slices her, throwing her folded arms at a 180 degree stretch and unbuckling those invisible knees, he sheds more than just a tear. The burden of sacrifice he tries to weigh her down with is such a white lie. The pretence doesn’t last long. His hands and fingernails start digging. Her flesh is pushed out from her insides in clear rings. Banter leads to slaughter and her body lies torn in rings over the pearl cutting mat complementing her dying complexion.

Hands, the most proactive organs of a human body, are always busy indulging in a variety of chores simultaneously. His hands are no different. They strip off the thin plastic shield from the slice of slim cheese and grab the knife with more excitement. They carve the slice to sleek strips. They cover the circumference of her rings with these strips and force another ring to encapsulate it. If her pain could scream, it would echo through the curtains of eardrums ripping them to two halves with ease. But at times like these, she forgets her voice box and the eyes keep flickering like those of button-controlled plastic Barbie dolls. Did her pink skin call for such impulsiveness?

The ritual continues. His hands dance to the songs he sings. They wrap her rings choked with cheese in a bed of corn flour and milk like bathing a baby with vanilla scented soap. It looks like a pious act committed in the name of hunger. Aside on the stove, the flame elongates its tongue out and heats the pool of oil floating in the prison pan. His hands are prepped up to perform the final act.

After sinful bathing, his hands hold her now fragile cheesy rings and lay them flat in the prison pan. The oil gushes and strokes. And she surrenders the struggling remains of her body to the prison. The yellow pool bubbles with joy at her curves and edges, melting her insides at a snail’s pace. The poison from the cheese has oozed and infected her weakling body. It feels like a hot encounter, there isn’t any escape from. The corn flour batter invites more heat and turns Onion with her rings to crisp. The colour of her face doesn’t come back but gently burns like the lemon sun of a summer day. Her body is stained with food sin, clothed with corn flour batter and dipped in the pool close to hell. We are beyond redemption, aren’t we?

His hands areseem to be tucked away at a distance. They use steel tongs to pinch her butt and check how pink and red the stain is. Then, they toss her face down like drowning her breath, one last time. Like forgotten last words, she hopes to forget how he would wipe her the plate off the plate. How clean it would be, with no oil stain or her body’s remains. Onion loses her gut and then her breath. The smell of her death is enchanting. It tickles his nostrils and he knows it’s time to plate her for an evening snack. His lips part, exposing a glimpse of his gated parallel teeth. He licks them, lusciously.

Shades of pink have turned to browns. Her body lies on a sea green porcelain plate and hot sauce gives the blood effect to this well plated crime scene. The scars on her insides are still bruised but she’s warm to touch on the outside. His hands shred cheese just to add texture and glaze to the composition. They finally crucify her with a fork, stabbing its four fingers at one time.

We can’t report an assault without evidence, can we? His hands wiped every inch and corner of space clean. His tongue touched base and licked it all over. It had been such a delicious day, after all.


Words: Aekta Khubchandani

Edits: Amal Shiyas

Illustration: Pearl D’Souza



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