West Midlands based charcoal artist & painter
July '15 (& Everything Since)
I slept on top of the covers during the summer. Curtains pulled to the side, window as far open as I could push it.
But something was off that night.
Identifying my own hand as the source of discomfort, I lifted it up to observe the offender. My fingertips were stained with the unmistakable colour of blood. I physically felt my eyes pop out of their sockets, pupils widening to take in the image in front of me.
This can’t be happening. Not to me. Why was it happening to me?
The breeze through the open window dried the blood before I understood what it meant. I wasn’t mistaken; it was real and it was my own.
Despite the July heat, my body slowly slipped under the covers. I didn’t dare disturb the monster that had done this to me. If it knew I was awake, it would surely finish the job. It can’t get me from under here, though. I don’t wash the blood off; it’ll be gone by morning anyway.
No visual accompanied my dream that night. Instead, I felt my body weight pressing deep into the mattress, like I had grown since shutting my eyes. A sharpness carved the length of my spine. The stinging cuts stretched apart as the monster crawled in (or out? I couldn’t be sure). Warm, sticky blood pooled from my wound, but I remained stiff, powerless. I focused on moving my fingers, working my way up to my limbs and joints until I was awake again.
I gingerly brought my hand up to my face and discovered that the blood was still there. Instead of coating my small fingers, it drenched my newly formed talons. Fur had sprouted, dotting up my forearms, festering underneath my armpits. Yanking the covers away, I realised quickly that my arms weren’t the only place the hair populated. It crawled up and up my legs.
My body hasn’t felt like my own since.
I frequently use my new incisors to tear at my flesh, morph it into something that makes sense. My claws rip away at my back, and my teeth sink into fat. Nothing worked.
I’ve been trying to make sense of it.
First, I find distractions.
Fictional media were initially just escapism, until they began mirroring my experiences. Watching Ginger Snaps, staring in awe as Ginger progressively transformed into a beast as well as a woman. In Interview with the Vampire, Claudia went through her own summer night. Her monsters thought they were saving her, but she became stuck with a curse not unlike my own; one of perpetual transformation.
Something finally clicks as I watched Lydia Pettit talk through her practice. Portraying herself as a ruthless killer or the helpless victim are ways of combating trauma, face to face.
Barbara Creed helps me organise my own relationship with horror. She tells me that the genre is inherently connected to gender, that there’s a reason I’m so attached to these monsters and beasts.
These tales, these people, say to me “It’s not just you”.
I decide to confront my monstrous features by painting them. Thick coats of oil paint, hog hairbrushes for my unruly fur. Smooth layers of acrylic onto a metal surface. Imperfections from beneath the shiny surface replicate the moles and spots dotting my own skin.
I face the monster, sometimes known as dysphoria, head on, sketching my form onto paper. Sometimes, my body looks as human as anyone else’s and, strangely, I find that this causes more discomfort. I crop and carve the body’s shapes and folds, adjust it until the charcoal pieces are confusing, bizarre. My body is confusing to inhabit, after all.
I’ve grown into my fangs and claws as of late.
Still, I wonder if there will come a time where I can sleep atop the duvet again. Where I won’t have memories of that night present whenever I see my naked body.