Articles & Short Stories
Skintag
The click-clack of his keyboard was the only sound in his studio apartment. It reverberated off of the bare walls and back to his ears, where it rattled around with the emptiness of his existence. He stared at the screen as he wrote, trying to imbue the words he was typing with meaning through willpower alone, but he failed.
He’d type the beginnings of a sentence, then stare. He’d then angrily smash the backspace button until the cursor flashed on a blank screen again; his life, one he considered full of promise at some distant point in the past, reflected on that blank page.
Finally, he stopped and let loose a sigh. Looking around the small efficiency in which he had lived alone for many years, he realized how long it had been since he felt anything. He remembered his childhood room, filled with wonder and whimsy, posters of his many passions all forgotten. The blank walls that surrounded him were a far cry from that world. Where once he felt love and compassion, sadness and fear, there was now a black void that filled his soul.
He looked down at the keyboard, wondering where it all went wrong. Was it that summer at his uncle’s when he was a teen? The one where it happened? He shuddered to think of it, wanting nothing more than to forget.
That’s when he noticed it, a small up-peeling of skin on his thumb. He used to be so meticulous about his nails and cuticles, which were now overgrown and dirty. He thought to himself that removing that small tag of dried, dirty skin would be a good first step towards normalcy.
***
He gripped the skin between the grimy nails of his opposite hand and tugged lightly. A searing pain spread over his thumb, but the skintag stood fast. Exasperated, he tightened his grip and pulled harder. The pain spread as the skin gave way, ripping deeply and moving down his thumb to his wrist. He watched, at first in horror, then in delight, as the skin peeled down like old wallpaper and wondered how far he could go. Blood pooled in the channel that was carved into his hand and he noticed something: he could feel the pain. It was concrete and wonderful compared to the ethereal emptiness he was used to.
He gripped the hanging skin with more resolve and yanked. The small string of damp flesh became larger as it moved up his arm, blood dripping from the fresh wound and falling to the floor. He released a moan of ecstasy as the pain sent alarms to his brain from the nerves in his arm. He pulled harder, exposing his bicep now and covering his pants with spreading crimson patches. Shaking his head, he stood up and removed his shirt. His body cried for him to stop, but his mind latched onto this searing white light in the black hole of his soul.
His shirt caught on the skin of his arm, tangling itself up and making it difficult to remove. He grabbed the shirt and ripped at it with all his might, and the dark red gash moved up to his shoulder. He tingled with excitement at this, dropping the shirt to wipe at the drool that began to overflow from him mouth. Coming untangled, the shirt fell with a wet splat to the floor.
“Should I be doing this,” he thought. “Should I be doing this?”
***
The same question he asked his uncle so many times over the course of that summer. All of those dark nights where he forced himself to focus on the singing of the crickets and frogs outside so he could ignore the panting and pawing.
He felt weak and decided to lie down on his bed, blood and gore leaving a trail behind him as he went. The skin hung limply off of his shoulder as his head hit the pillow and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, he dreamed.
He was in a field and the sun shone brightly, dancing playfully across the top of the tall grass. He walked through, letting his fingers run through the blades as he went, the raw red meat of them inciting feelings that he never knew were possible. A mixture of pleasure and pain that was exquisite, causing him to shiver each time his fingertips brushed the grass. Looking back, he saw a trail of red that cut through the green behind him. He smiled at the thought of leaving part of himself behind.
He turned and continued to walk towards the bright horizon, beaming with happiness as he went. The euphoric pain filled his body with a hope he thought lost to the many tragedies of life.
He woke up as he felt a tug on his chest.
Looking down, he saw his sheets stained almost black with blood. He tried to raise himself up, but quickly realized he was stuck to the once white mattress by the blood that had crusted and dried around him, even while new blood intermingled with it. The skintag had stuck as well, and as he moved in his sleep had ripped further, now exposing the muscles of his chest. He smiled down at the unclothed striations of his pecs and tried to reach up for the skin so he could expose them further. His arm, though, was trapped by the grip the blood had on him. Straining, he tore his arm from the sheet, leaving the skin on the back of it behind.
He let out a scream that existed somewhere between horror and orgasmic release as the nerve endings tried to take stock of what had happened. Ignoring everything but his need to feel, he grabbed at the skin hanging off of his chest and ripped. It turned at his shoulder and travelled down towards his stomach, feeling like a million little kisses as it went. He pulled and pulled, only stopping as it reached his belt.
Releasing the skin, he pawed at his belt, his blood- slicked fingers slipping off of the buckle he so desperately needed to undo. He cried in frustration as he fiddled around, unable to get the buckle to work. His mind wandered back to the nighttime songs of the country and a hand that wasn’t his own whipping his belt off and pulling down his pants. This alien hand then reached into his underwear and...
His belt finally gave in and he removed his pants. The flesh felt slick in his hands as he pulled with all of his might, removing the skin of his penis like a glove. His body seized as it realized what he had done and, shaking, he passed out.
***
The sun still shone on the field, but on the horizon dark clouds began to take shape. His body ached as he ambled on, bits of flesh sticking to the blades of grass. More and more of him was being left behind as he walked and now, instead of being thrilled at the thought, a melancholy took over. He looked behind himself now and then, mournfully looking at the bits and pieces scattered in the wake of his stroll. Looking down at his body, he saw bits of skeleton exposed and shivered with cold. That’s when he noticed the sun was no longer shining; it had been overtaken by a bruised sky. The wind that proceeded it cut through his shorn body, its nerve-endings confused whether the feeling was one of cold or heat. Then the rain began.
He woke with a start. Night had fallen. Had he the strength, he would have turned on the lamp next to him. He had lost too much blood. So much, in fact, that he wasn’t sure if what was oozing from his wounds was blood or plasma now. He reached down and touched his penis. It bristled briefly, but fell dead and limp in his hand. He put his palms on the bed and pushed. He wanted to be upright to face death. As he struggled, he heard the ripping of flesh from behind.
Sitting up, he looked back. On the bed beneath him he could see what the noise was. Instead of the erotic jolt that he had felt before, he felt sadness. The journey he was on was almost over and he knew it.
He reached back and rubbed the red mass lovingly. Like an old friend lost to disease, he would miss what had once been part of him.
***
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t move. He began to punch them, but this only caused the skin to become slack and fall off.
He knew what he had to do.
Grabbing under his neck, he yanked upwards. All of the anger and betrayal of the past, all of the emptiness that replaced his once bright soul, released as his face and scalp peeled away. The searing fire of pain that ran through him forced it out, leaving him raw and unmasked for the world to see. There would be no more blinking cursors on a blank page, no more dark memories of crickets singing. No more doubts, no more void.
For there was nothing left, but the blinding sunlight of pain and the sweet embrace of death.
***
He floated through the field. The clouds had passed and the sun shone brilliantly, dancing across the tops of the tall grass. He looked behind him. Green as far as his eyes could see. What he left behind was now far away and only the peaceful sound of the wind twirling through the blades of grass remained.
He smiled, for he was free.