The Tragedy of Erosion

He was a sensitive man. Light stung him, touch pained him. Hard pressure wounded him. Friction killed. The doctors had explained long ago about the dangers of prolonged contact, the hyper-haemophilic conditions, as they fitted on the gloves and lotions.

He wanted for nothing. He had no iron mask. He could go into the day for chores, or social visits. He could even shake hands once a week. He was no tragic outcast from the world, simply a man with a medical condition.

Billions had grown and died without his level of satisfaction, and all the same he could not fill that one hole in his life. It grew to him, and he would gnash his teeth at night, careful not to do anything to his lips, which were too delicate for kisses or learning to whistle.

That fine spring day made it break. The bright sunlight, the breeze itching horribly on his skin. He went to the bathroom and neglected his typical half-hour of ginger routine in favor of the minute of every man, though his quota of friction had been filled for the day.

On the way out he peeled off his gloves three months ahead of schedule, skin pallid and so weak that the air itself thundered along it like scalding metal, tiny spores having taken root and grown within. The faucet’s cold metal burned to the touch, and hours worth of life rubbed against it in a thin sheen of living skin. He began to wash his hands under running water, crisp and icy, though the first touch made him weak with a sudden orgasm.

He stood in line, fidgeting, fingertips scrubbing away on the ride tokens.

He gripped the roller-coaster bar tight and held on the whole ride, weeks rubbing onto the painted metal with every turn. Blood and white curds of flesh slid freely from his sleeves in a steady flow.

The man looked along the fairground, leaving his twin trails, and rubbed the back of his head. The brain burned there, skin and bone perilously shallow. If he were not bleeding he would find a girl and hug and kiss her.

A rainstorm was on the way. He traced his fingers along his hood. Dance in it, bareheaded?