She has a trophic ulcer. There, on her thigh, two or three palms above the knee on the side. She smears it with various ointments, iodine, leaves it out to air out and heal—but this thing doesn't feel like it's getting any better or smaller. A hole in the fabric of reality. Black, small. And covered in dark, brown, purple, and, in parts farther from the core, greenish flesh on all sides.

"If they confirm my diagnosis, I'll rot alive. I'm basically anyway, but..."

I've never looked at this thing with glasses. I wouldn't want to look at it at all, but sometimes it just draws my gaze. As if it won't spread if I will look.

It doesn't just rot. It rots, crusts over, and then bleeds. Blood... Not red. Not anymore. It's darker, but I didn't dare get closer to determine the exact shade. When I think about this thing, I feel sick. I immediately remember the smells of rot, gasoline, chemicals, everything that's pungent and disgusting, and I feel sick. Even outside, no matter how high I climb in my town, the smell doesn't reach the lowlands; it just follows me. My brain is swimming sometimes because of it. I can't think clearly. I think about this thing living inside my grandma, and sometimes I can't distract myself enough to forget.

My mother usually bandages her wounds. A couple of days ago, she asked ME to bandaged grandma's wounds. For some reason, I felt like I was going to have to face this one day, and still my hands were shaking.

I took off my glasses because I couldn't look at it. I treated my palms with wet wipes.I tried to do everything as carefully as I could, and after all that, I felt terrible.