Slipstream, horror, romance
Skins carry remnants of souls. If I listen carefully, I can hear them whispering in fear and confusion.
I resist it as long as I can, but eventually I clutch the skin and cradle it close. It’s fresh and carries the copper tinge and slickness of blood. My body tingles and buzzes. My claws edge through my fingertips. A deep sensation that might once have been hunger crawls through me. I want to slip my arms within the sleeves, dip my head and pull the child’s face over my empty space. I want to breathe in the scents and memories. Perhaps I could pull some dreams and thoughts from the layers of fat and from underneath each freckle.
Stupid idea. There’s no point getting to know these remnants. Marcus tells me that we must regard them the same way they look at a steak.
I place the skin on the faded couch, and move to the bathroom. I stare into the mirror and slip a claw into my own skin, just beneath my throat. I tear down and peel myself open. In the half-light my black slit eyes stare back.
I am a monster made of smoke. A nothingness that only steals.