Bare Bones

Bare Bones

One day, my skin peeled off like an orange. It was a Tuesday, I believe. I had just eaten soup—slightly too salty—and as I dabbed my chin, my napkin snagged, pulling away a reddish spiral of skin. It curled like a ribbon, making my empty bowl almost festive. The piece of my flesh cuddled against the crust of my bread on a bed of stew drippings. I was reluctant to separate the two since they looked so cozy. But needs must when the Devil drives. Wiping my spoon on the terry cloth towel, I dipped the tip of it into the basin. Only this time it was much less appealing than my split pea. I laid the skin on top of my napkin. Poor thing. It stared longingly for my face like a dog begging for a walk. If only it were a dog, I’d have walked it gladly. But instead, I should probably investigate my chin.

I wasn’t sure what to expect really: my skin had never peeled off before. In the bathroom, I twisted my face each way and, sure enough, a two-inch strip of skin was missing down the entire length of my face. My eyelid was gone, too. Maybe that’s why it felt so drafty. My lips were still there but they blended into the exposed meat above and below my mouth. The interlocking chunks of crimson and maroon muscle—while shocking to see in my powder room—were disappointingly ordinary. Under the circumstances, I wondered if perhaps there was something unusual about my body. Maybe this would be my origin story. Perhaps this was the start to my career as a crime fighter, a warrior, a rescuer. Since I was a child, I’d always dreamt of having the courage to save lives.

As my lips flickered to a smile, another band of skin pulled away. It floated down like a feather. Perhaps I was molting. Flecks of dandruff dotted my cork-colored cardigan, nestling within the stitches. I have never had a problem with dandruff. When the third segment of tissue landed in the sink basin, I was determined to act. That’s what a hero would do, right? Also, the sink could use a cleaning: there was taupe-colored soap scum along the drain. After that, I might call my doctor. But she has so many patients, I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Could I reattach the skin myself?

With the vanity free of grime and epidermis, I laid each slip of tissue on the counter in order of when it dislodged from my head. I dabbed the first bit of skin with liquid bandage and lined it up along the seam. Gingerly, I pressed the insides together, rubbing two fingers along the cheek side. I held it and waited. The sun shone through the half-moon window a few feet above the toilet. It was a lovely day. Maybe I should get a dog: it was lonely to always walk with just myself for company. And it would be nice to have someone to love. Crossing my mental fingers, I released the pressure of my physical fingers, praying the glue would hold. The coil dropped off my face. God must be busy with other patients again as well. I called in sick to work.

The rest of my skin peeled off throughout the day. And, yes, I now remember it was indeed a Tuesday because it was trash day. That was unfortunate because my flesh fell off after they’d emptied the toter, so it sat in the garbage can in the steaming sun for another week. My neighbors complained about the smell to the HOA. Overnight, I delivered baskets of muffins with hand-written apologies. I didn’t want to disturb their evenings or their peace of mind with my visage. In the bathroom once again, I cringed at the crimson and maroon muscles. Somehow, it was almost violating. The exposure of my private bits and bobs put me on display in a way I’d always shied away from. We weren’t supposed to know ourselves or others so intimately that we see every facet of fascia.

Not to mention that not having skin was also extremely messy—and not just emotionally. Like an untidy butcher slapped meat all over my living room, the settee suffered blood splotches and my footsteps streaked the floor red. I tried wearing shoes to contain the carnage, but the fabric rubbed my flesh raw. Maybe soaking would soothe the aching. Only I didn’t have a bathtub and I wasn’t sure what would happen if I took a shower. Beyond the blood, I kept finding strips of skin dangling from sweater sleeves and under the edge of the cabinet and trapped in dresser drawers. Usually I am quite fastidious, but this transition has left me a bit distracted. So much so, I didn’t realize the shower drain clogged with the remaining pieces of my flesh like the gruesome papier mâché. It poured over the side, flooding the bathroom floor with murky red water. I patted my muscles dry, tiptoed past the puddle, and went to bed.

When I woke up on Wednesday, I felt bunchy. There were new lumps in my mattress that hadn’t been there when I climbed in last night. As I stood up, fillets of flesh flopped out of my pajama sleeves and down my pant legs. It reminded me of an art class I took about how to make alcohol ink art. The technique involves squeezing a single drop of ink onto a surface before blowing through a straw to create a design similar to watercolor painting. And now my carpet was too: stains from the piles of muscle oozed with a similar free-spirited effect. But smelly. I sighed. Cleaning consumed more and more of my day as there was less and less of me. Afterward, I tossed the meaty bits and bedding in the trash toter when my skin decomposed before eating breakfast and dressing for work. My company’s sick leave was minimal, so I couldn’t stay home another day. It took a few tries to pick comfortable clothes that hung on my bones without falling off. Flannels and knits did the trick. Luckily, I didn’t feel temperature anymore so wearing heavy fabrics in July didn’t bother me. The purple and green tartan print always flattered my complexion. Well, it used to. It did compliment my eyes at least for as long as I have them.

I still had teeth, so I brushed them. While I flossed, a skeleton stared back at me in the mirror. I had eaten oatmeal with bony hands and watched it plop through my rib cage onto my chair and pulled pants over tibiae and femurs, but my face had remained a mystery. While I had never been handsome, my face was kind. Plenty of people thought so. Now, turning my head as I did the day before, I appraised the bones. It wasn’t pure and white like a Halloween costume, but muddied with yellow and red as well. And even though the softness was gone, I was not an unattractive skeleton: I maintained my symmetrical structure and I didn’t have to worry about adult acne anymore. My lists of silver linings grew shorter just like the days after the solstice. Even so, there was always something to be grateful for. I was determined to see the sunny side. Just wish I could’ve kept my penis.

Before exiting my car in the parking lot, I debated whether to wear some type of covering. My new look might take some getting used to and I wouldn’t want to interrupt the work flow. I knew there was a towel and an umbrella in my trunk, but those didn’t seem like sustainable solutions. A quick search online didn’t reveal the office etiquette on the subject either. I read a fashion magazine in my doctor’s waiting room once that advised everyone to remove one accessory before leaving the house. Perhaps this is another ‘less is more’ moment: clean, classic, elegant. That style always suited me anyway. Even as a kid, I knew I would never be the type of superhero to wear a cape.

As I passed rows of cubicles, no one lifted their eyes from their computer screens. I was prepared to explain how my skin peeled off and my muscles fell apart, but no one asked. It was the same as every other day: I was invisible to everyone. Well, everyone except my philodendron, Cleo. Still, it was disappointing not to have anyone ask about my skeletal form. Maybe I should have carried the umbrella. Someone might have spoken to me then even if it was just to ask me to close it out of superstition. But my luck had already run out when my wish to be acknowledged was granted only not how I expected. While my coworkers ignored me, no one else did. The manager called the police on me at the grocery store because I looked suspicious in my “mask.” Eyes and gasps followed me wherever I went. People didn’t try to hide when they took pictures. Reporters wanted to interview me. Being in public became exhausting. I began staying home more. I was denied short-term disability because “skeletization” was not a diagnosable medical event with supporting documentation. I lost my job.

Most nights, I scrolled through animal shelter websites, considering adopting a cat. With how unpredictable my condition was, I didn’t know how long I would live. The onset was so sudden and rapid that the likelihood was I would die tomorrow or live forever. At this point, I wasn’t sure which sounded worse. It didn’t seem fair to burden a cat with that uncertainty or macabre attitude. Especially since there was no meat on these bones to eat if I keeled over and died without having a friend to feed it. Instead, I donated the last few dollars of my savings account. Resting my mandible on my carpals, I shrugged my shoulders like a sigh. No lungs. Another loss. I was desperate to have a thick skin when people stared at me but, well, that was the problem. I’d been reduced to bare bones and I longed for when I had lips to hold soup and an esophagus to swallow it and a stomach to digest it and a penis to excrete it. I wanted to cry my eyes out because my skin peeled off like an orange and my muscles fell away in fillets, but I couldn’t. All I had left were my eyes and I couldn’t afford to lose those, too. So instead, I sat and waited forever for the end.