Out of the frying pan

My corrupted veins stretch out under my skin like fronds of some hideous weed, tangled and black against my pale, almost white, skin. Sometimes I sit and stare at them, wondering exactly what will become of me. I fancy that I can see the corruption spreading, achingly slowly, along the spidery lines of subcutaneous vessels. But it’s only when I’m not watching that it really spreads. From the fingertips of my right hand to my throat, a network of intertwining black threads reaches up as though...