‘It’s a woman. The cloth of her dress wafts around her thighs and tendrils of hair snake through the water. Her face is oddly featureless, and she could be old or young or anywhere in-between. Still two eyes, a nose, a mouth, but as if drawn on with charcoal and then smudged by a careless hand.
Her skin is no longer skin but simply a covering for bones, a sack that keeps everything in place for whatever comes next. Skin should look like it’s alive, in the same manner that the woman whose bones this skin covers once laughed out loud, cried real tears and filled her lungs with air.
But this skin no longer breathes. It’s stretched thin, bloated by the rainwater in which she’s submerged and which has invaded every pore.’