Each bloody skirmish in Arthur’s prolonged teenage war on acne had been duly commemorated on the increasingly crowded canvas of his face.
He had not been the only casualty, of course. He recalled endless rows of lotion bottles, their contents long since buried in some forgotten corner of an increasingly foreign-looking field.
His face in the mirror reminded him of the surface of the moon, bubbling over with its canyons and wide gaping calderas.
People had gone to the moon, hadn’t they, in order to understand it better? Maybe, he thought, one day someone would do the same for him.