ISSUE I: P(art) of the Soul

By DIMITAR BELCHEV
PROSE
INSTANCES
IN MIRRORS
"I could invent a new self, one who
wasn’t pre-stencilled by family or
friends or shop assistants who knew
my face. And I did."
By Laoise Ní Raghallaigh
I
have a team of women to keep me alive and healthy and looking
altogether well. I met my dermatologist about four years ago, when
my sister began seeing her. I watched as her skin lost its redness
and became smooth again, like a freshly resurfaced road. Months
later when my own skin started to rebel against me, I went to the same little office
in Woodquay, and within three months the worst of it was gone. My optician flips
lenses and switches and tells me how she remembers the first time I came in to see
her when I was eight, claiming triple vision. My doctor, who takes my bloods, and
my consultant who analyses my bloods and prescribes me medication. There’s my
dietician, who probes me about my portion sizes and exercise regimes. There’s my
mother, who pays for almost all of it, and my sister, who drives me to all the various
appointments when my mother’s busy.
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