The Madame sat on her bed, clad only in a silk sheath. She had thrown off her blanket, laying herself bare before me. She was beautiful even though she wore no make-up. Her hair, even in her state of distress, was still teased into a bouffant. She looked at me, her face contorted into a mask of fear and hate, daring me to stare and at the same time, daring me to look away. I forced myself to keep my gaze on her.
Her limbs were covered in green-brown scales. But instead of being smooth and regular like a fish’s, these were misshapen and diseased, with bare patches where gnarled, barnacle-like tumors grew. Some of them leaked pus, thick and viscous, smelling like rotten fish. Her hands, her beautiful hands were not spared. A thin, mottled membrane had grown between her fingers, which had be
