Skinless

When you see a broken person from a fictional universe it’s hard to deny that there is something aesthetically pleasing about them. They’re skinny, fairly clean, and wearing baggy clothing that still accents their bodies perfectly. They have dark circles under their eyes, but those only add to their eerie beauty as they gaze longingly out of large windows at storms that perfectly reflect their inner turmoil. The camera will zoom in and you’ll watch as they shed a single tear, that neatly falls over their unblemished cheek. Their home is a little cluttered, but not a disaster. The old Chinese take out boxes even look kind of cute positioned on the coffee table just so. Fictional sorrow is appealing. The person on the screen is still recognizable as a human being and it’s easy, effortless really, to sympathize with them.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons people find it so difficult to empathize with someone who is actually suffering; because there is nothing romantic about a real broken person.

I closed my notebook and tossed my pen across the desk in frustration. I hated writing sad bullshit. But since I started breaking, it was impossible to write anything else.

It was hard to remember when I first started losing pieces of myself. I was currently staring down at, yet another, disconnected piece of me. A chunk of my flesh was laying at my feet; it was dead, grey, and hard. I tried to remember what that particular part of me was called. It was on the tip of my tongue when I heard him behind me,

“What are you doing?” I couldn’t tell what mood he was in yet, he kept his tone unaffected.

I pointed at the lost part, “Do you remember what that was? …What part of me that was?”

He glanced down at it for less than a second before he turned to walk into the kitchen, “I doubt it was anything important.”

Chills ran over me. That was part of me. He popped his head back into the room suddenly, and saw me tearing up. I quickly tried to hide it, but it was too late. He rolled his eyes and walked towards me,

“I have to walk on eggshells around you, huh? Nothing I say is ever right.”

“I didn’t say anything to you.”

“Like I can’t see you crying?” He scoffed.

My breathing started to get a little erratic. Losing that piece of me was hard, and I felt fucking sad about it. I just wanted the conversation to be over. I had been fighting him like this for so long. I used to scream back. I used to try and logically argue against his manipulative speech patterns. I used to cry to him and beg him to empathize with me. But I learned, after a couple of years, that it truly does not matter what you say to someone who isn’t listening. I took the easiest route out:

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. I’m going to go lay down for awhile.” I just wanted to be alone, in my own space for a little bit. I wanted one peaceful moment to compose myself.

“I could have guessed that you were going to go take a nap.” He walked away. One last little poke. I tried to ignore it but the guilt had started to wash over me as soon as he finished his sentence. Something about the way he said it made me feel like a child, and as a child I chased perfection. Rest could be mistaken for laziness, and if I’m lazy I am far from perfect.

I decided not to take a nap, and I heard a loud wet slap crack across the floorboards. It was another lump of my flesh; it was larger than the last piece. It smelled like burnt rubber and puke. This time I didn’t feel sad. I felt ashamed. This piece was disgusting now, it was dead and rotted. I felt no connection to it.

I shuffled quickly and quietly to the hallway closet to get a plastic bag. I held the knob, shut the door silently, and then released it slowly. I hurried back to the nasty pile of flesh and laid the bag open over top of it. I grabbed it through the bag, and then flipped the bag inside out, before tightly tying it shut. I peeked into the kitchen. He was at the sink with his back turned to me. I slipped in and tossed the bag in the trash casually; he didn’t turn around.

I was smiling on my way out of the kitchen, which made me stop. Why did that feel like a win to me? Disposing of a rotted piece of myself before it bothered him?

“What are you thinking about?”

I jumped. I hadn’t heard him come up behind me. I guess I had just paused directly outside of the kitchen. “Nothing really. Just laundry and some other stuff that still needs to get done.”

I didn’t like lying to him about anything, but if I had told him what was actually bothering me, it would have started a fight. And I was just too tired to fight.

Not long after that I started to get so tired that I struggled to move. I was almost completely bare muscle now, save for a piece or two of flesh left around my neck and chest. Moving hurt, thinking hurt, thinking about moving really hurt. The air even hurt.

I was sitting in the living room, nestled into the back corner of the couch. The pain had started to become unbearable. I had barely any skin left. How long could I survive in constant, excruciating pain? Dark thoughts were starting to slither in when he walked into the room. I was happy to see him, maybe he could take my mind off of some of the pain.

“That’s my spot on the couch. I really wanted to sit there.” He motioned for me to get up.

Could he not see how raw I was? I got up and moved to the other corner. He put his feet on me…while my skin was burning and aching just from being touched by air. I let out a yelp, and he pretended not to notice.

I didn’t say anything.

The piece of skin over my chest fell into my lap, and I screamed. The pain was searing. I sagged back onto the couch, and my face went blank. A numbness was creeping over me; I welcomed it after dealing with my loud, violent, and confused emotions for so long. The numbness had covered me everywhere but where the skin of my neck was left. I didn’t even want that last bit of my skin very much. It would be pointless, now that the rest of me was gone, to walk around trying to keep one last piece in tact. Just thinking about the amount of effort it would take made me want to sleep for a day or two.

So then why couldn’t I just peel it off and throw it away now? I rubbed my neck. My neck with my skin. I remembered my favorite food, my old writing aspirations, and the night I saved an injured bird that got stuck in a storm. I ran my fingertips over that last bit of skin and thought about the few things about myself that I could remember.

I stood up, the numbness muting the pain, and walked over to the mirror by the front door. I heard him beside of me after a minute:

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t recognize myself.” It was my final little cry for help. I put my last bit of hope into the fact that he might notice just how far I’d fallen, and help me. Why wouldn’t he help me? He loves me. He tells me he loves me. He insists he loves me.

“This piece does kind of…clash.” He pointed to my neck.

“That’s the last piece of me.” I couldn’t keep the confusion out of my voice. Maybe he just misunderstood what I meant.

“I think you would feel a lot better if you got rid of it, and fully embraced your new self.”

“I don’t like my new self. My new self hurts. Everything hurts. I can barely stand.” I couldn’t stop the tears. They were salty, painful, pathetic, and hopeless. I would give anything to have the numbness back. When did it leave?

“Why do you think you deserve to never hurt? You think you should always get exactly what you want? That everything is about you?”

I was looking in the mirror as he spoke, and I watched the last piece of me detach and splat into the small bowl we used to put our keys in.

“There!” He smiled. I rarely ever saw him smile like that. He kissed me on the cheek and the forehead – affection he hadn’t shown me in years. “You look so much better–“

“Skinless.” I said evenly.