In My Skin

We’re huddling around a campfire, desperately trying to grasp onto what little peace there can be. Some haven’t eaten all day- some haven’t eaten for days, their hands jittery as they breathe in the smoke, hoping that it’ll somehow fill the emptiness in their stomachs. Despite my own hunger, I linger back- the smoke feels heavy in my lungs- not my stomach. Everyone is appraising the other, trying to figure out if this group is good for the night.

“That a family heirloom or something?” Someone finally breaks the silence, nodding at me. Their eyes on my neck. My hand goes up to grasp the metal locket around my neck, tracing the shape. I nod, cautiously. It can be a dangerous game, socializing in a group of survivors. Everyone is already on edge, and just the slightest provocation can turn them into wild animals.

It appears the person’s words and my response break the tension and people begin hushed, whispered conversations. It’s almost interesting in a way, to see how even in the apocalypse people will make connections with one another. I let the locket go and it thuds against my skin.

The night passes with people sharing their stories in hushed tones. None of these stories really matter, not after the Great Invasion flattened cities, redefined the oceans, and established a new age. Long had humans known they weren’t alone in the universe, but they didn’t know they were hunted.

Even now, the peace of the night is not something that has been fought for and won- it is given because the group is small and insignificant. Small prey compared to the larger communities that have clung onto life like vermin, attempting to build underground cities to hide from the skies.

My hunger gnaws at me and distracts me from my thoughts, I am not yet used to hunting in the wastelands- and my last meal feels so long ago. I force myself to be patient, after all, everyone else here is starving as well.

The atmosphere has shifted- the somber mood that seemed to suffocate the group has made way to something akin to relief and hope. After all, if they can come together to form a small group, surely one day humans will be able to come together as a whole and beat the odds. People are smiling at each other now, even though they know tomorrow the person in front of them may be gone. It is in this way that humans are silly.

“You haven’t said a word,” the same someone who had pointed out my locket speaks to me, sitting down in front of me, “Tell me the story behind the locket, I’m curious.”

I clear my throat, taking a second to remember how to speak, “She was the first person I met out here, she took me in.”

“She’s gone now?”

I nod, watching as they move closer to me.

“You see, because my wife had a locket that was almost exactly the same.” They’re leaning in, their breath invading my space brushing against my skin, “I’d like very much to know what happened to the woman who gave you that locket, especially since you agreed it was a family heirloom earlier.”

I look around, they have been speaking quietly and it appears no one else in the group is paying much attention to our conversation. They are still relaxing in each other’s presence, oblivious.

“Do you really want to know?”

It is in this way that humans are trapped. The person barely has time to respond before I burst from my skin, devouring them. The others were not expecting it, not ready to run, and unable to outrun. Most are unaware of their death, the ones who have time to scream are quickly cut off.

Humans forget even small game has hunters.

Afterward, I take the time to reconstruct my skin, letting the flesh settle over my own, snapping my limbs into place. I collect the locket from my previous skin, wiping the blood off of it and draping it over my new form.

“This used to be my wife’s, my wife had one exactly like it.” I practice, letting the voice settle until it is a passable imitation.

I pick up a pack and walk off into the night, hungry no more.