His Skin

I really liked his grave. The cemetery overlooked a deep lake where birds flew all around. The little grove around the church was also perfect. It wasn\'t too thick, too wild, too sparse, or manmade. It felt and looked, well, natural and beautiful. The grounds themselves were pretty well-kept. Most of the other tombstones had flowers laid before them. Some roses here, violets there, special bouquets of dozens of colors, and others with broken stems and fallen petals. And then there were his. Every three days I\'ve come and left one dahlia. The color never mattered. He always said I knew which color would make him happy. Today it was pink.

I set it down. My fingers always hesitated to let go, but I slid them away each time with a little sigh. Then I sat with my arms crossed and my back against the stone. Legs outstretched and feet lightly rocking. I enjoyed taking in the peace and quiet. After a few minutes, I started telling him about the last three days. The food I ate, the chapters I\'d read, the dreams I\'d had and whatever else I could think of. Every little thought trickled out like a broken tap. My words disappeared into the cut grass and polished stones, but I knew he could hear me. Maybe he even felt me.

I brought my knees to my chest and scanned the empty grounds. It was just him and me. It\'s sad that so many stones are left untouched after some time. I know people move on or can\'t make the time, but I can\'t imagine doing that to him. He was everything to me. His voice calmed the violent storms in my mind. His smell wrangled my nerves and steadied my heart. His smile stopped my rambling spirals. His touch, oh, his touch. His embrace. They took me home. He brought my soul to rest for once in the unending uphill struggle. I thought he\'d be the end of those struggles. I believed in something divine again because he was nothing like the reality I endured. He was a security and escape that breathed life back into my decaying spirit. It was nearly perfect.

For so long, he helped me heal, feel, and grow. At least that’s what I convinced myself. There was something else in me that grew as he loved me. Something that I never knew I wanted, no, I needed. When I laid with him, and my normal struggles melted into meaningless muck, a need scratched at the seams of my skull. While he squeezed my arm and rubbed my back with his eyes closed, I stared into his chest. Every time I did, the scratching turned frantic. My heart would race, but then I’d bury my face against his body. Slowly, the scratching would relax but I still felt it. He would squeeze me tight and hum because I never told him that my reaction wasn\'t from my usual burdens. Over time, the scratching got louder, and its nails pulsed in agony.

This kept happening until my little house of cards fell. He was hit by a drunk driver two months ago. He made it to the hospital but bled out before I was able to see him. Just like that, my light was snuffed out. No goodbye. No embrace. No smile. Nothing. I had to do so much that my mind blurred the bad. I could only take care of him and when that was all done, I was empty and in pain. Then I visited him every three days and told him how things were. Really, I didn’t know how they were because the only time I was in control was when I picked his flower and brought it here. As things settled, and I kept visiting, something was stirring in my brain. The claws were getting sharp, and my skull was soft. When I\'d think about it for too long, I\'d realize that I was on my knees and my fingers were pushing into the dirt. I\'d stop, clean my nails, shake my head, smile at his name, and go back home. It wasn\'t really home. He is home. What do you do when your home is cold, alone, shoved in a box, and buried? I lied in telling myself that I didn\'t know and that I couldn\'t figure it out.

But I came today to fix it. I knew what to do, so I stood up and looked around to make sure we were still alone. The sun was about to kiss the hills, but I didn\'t need its guidance. I dropped to my knees and started ripping the pointy grass. When I saw dirt, I clawed at it like the need in my head raked my skull. Together, we scraped and scratched. Bits of rock cut my fingers, but I didn’t notice. Only my need mattered, and I could finally fulfill it. I dug and cleared the dirt as the sun fell away leaving me in darkness. I liked it. I was protected from anyone who might stop me.

Eventually, with bleeding hands and sweat drenched clothes, I felt the smooth shiny wood of his newest bed. The damp earthy smell was strong, but I could just about make out his cologne. Without realizing, I was already trying to pick at the cover with my mangled and aching fingers. I leaned back and looked at the small hatchet I brought for tonight. As efficiently and quickly as I could, I hacked at the panel until I made a hole that I could squeeze through. The whole time I fought against the soil that was trying to prevent my purpose.

My cheeks hurt. I think I was smiling for the last hour or more as I got closer to this moment. I was beaming as I pressed against him and caressed his chest. There was no scratching in my head because I wasn\'t fighting it anymore. I was happy. I gripped my knife and began opening the doors to my real home. It was hard in such a small space, but I knew where I belonged. His ribs were in the way, so I awkwardly attacked them with the hatchet till there was room. Then it was done, and I crawled in. I felt safe as I lay in his skin, and I cried.

About the Author

Emerson Bell (They/Them) is a horror writer that enjoys portraying dread, tension, and paranoia. It doesn\'t matter where these feelings come, good things aren\'t to be expected.