Victoria Williams: 0082

With my head in my hands, from a distance, I almost appear to have perfect skin.

Nobody knows anymore whether my blemishes are real or not. If you asked 90% of people to hazard a guess they’d probably say that I’d painted them onto my face in a shade of terrible pink. (Some people think it’s an attention seeking move, some people think I do it in order to blend in with the company I keep). Nobody stops and takes a moment to realise that my blemishes are the same colour as their blemishes. The difference is my waxy pallor – and is this unnatural lack of colour down to bruising, sickness, or emotional distress? Nobody knows anymore, and nobody wonders. Well good. Because it’s something far more sinister…