Who is wearing my skin?

Who Is Wearing my skin

I first noticed it in the mirror.

At first, I thought it was exhaustion. The eyes looking back at me were a little too wide. The corners of the mouth curled up slightly, but I wasn’t smiling. Not really. Not from inside.

I remember blinking, just to be sure.

The reflection didn’t blink back.

Monday

There’s something terribly wrong with me.

I haven’t slept in three days, and my skin feels too tight. Not metaphorically—physically. Like it’s being pulled over something larger. Something that doesn’t quite fit in this frame.

When I press my fingers to my face, I feel it underneath—like a second heartbeat.

My therapist, Dr. Levens, says it’s a dissociative episode. “A trauma response,” she calls it. “We’ll adjust your meds. Stay grounded.”

But she didn’t see the reflection smile again when I turned away.

It winked at me.

Tuesday

The dreams have changed.

Now, I watch myself sleep. Not from above, but from across the room. Standing. Breathing. Smiling.

I wake up drenched in sweat, fingernail scratches across my arms—like someone clawed me from the inside, trying to escape.

When I tried to scream last night, the voice that came out wasn’t mine. It was low. Wet. Like breath through blood.

There are bruises around my neck this morning.

Finger-shaped.

Wednesday

The shower won’t get hot enough. I scrub until my skin turns raw, trying to peel something off. I don’t know what. A feeling. A presence.

Or maybe something inside me is trying to get out.

The reflection has stopped mimicking me entirely.

It grins. It tilts its head. Sometimes, it mouths words I can't hear.

And once—I swear to God—it walked away. Out of frame.

Thursday

People are noticing.

Mrs. Halberd from next door asked if I’d been on vacation. Said I “looked different. Healthier.”

Healthier?

My eyes are sunken. I haven’t eaten since Monday. My jaw clicks when I open it now, like something mechanical. Like it’s unhinging.

I check the bathroom mirror hourly. The man inside looks more confident. Bolder. His posture perfect, his skin smooth, his smile terrifyingly sure of itself.

That isn’t me.

That isn’t me.

Friday

I broke every mirror in the house.

But I still see him.

In puddles. In windows. In the reflection of a spoon. Staring.

Waiting.

He looks stronger now. Like he’s thriving while I rot. While I lose sense of time. My fingers shake. I smell copper constantly, like wet pennies in my nose.

When I try to scream, I hear laughter in my head.

It’s getting louder.

Saturday

I went to the hospital.

I told the ER nurse everything.

She nodded too kindly. Said someone would be with me shortly. Asked if I’d like a blanket.

I looked down and realized I was already wearing one.

But I didn’t remember putting it on.

Worse, I didn’t recognize the clothes underneath.

I touched my face and felt smoothness. Tightness.

Not mine.

Not me.

Sunday

I woke up on the floor of my apartment. Naked.

Scratches all over the walls, deep and deliberate. Like claws had raked them. Or teeth. Some gouges had skin flakes inside.

There’s blood under my fingernails.

I don’t remember anything.

Except the dream.



In it, I was lying on a long metal table.

I couldn’t move.

Across from me stood me. Perfect. Composed. Serene.

He leaned in and whispered something:

> “You’ve worn it long enough.
> My turn.”

---

I stumbled into the bathroom.

There was a full-length shard of mirror left from the destruction earlier this week. I don’t know why I kept it.

And there he was.

Smiling.

Then he opened his mouth—

—and I screamed.

Because his teeth—my teeth—were too white. Too long. His gums too wide, too red. Like he had been rehearsing the smile. Stretching the skin.

I turned away.

He didn’t.

He just kept watching.

Final Entry

I don’t know who’s writing this.

I don’t remember sitting down. I don’t remember where my hands have been.

The skin on my arms is pristine now. No more bruises. No more scratches. It smells like lavender soap.

But I haven’t bought soap in weeks.

Something’s wrong with the light. It flickers even when nothing’s turned on.

There’s a noise coming from the mirror shard. Not a reflection. A sound. A voice.

It’s whispering.

"Thank you."

---

I found something in the trash just now. Wrapped in bedsheets. Still wet.

It was a face.

My face.

The lips sewn shut.

END