ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤIt is a myth that a pinky finger can be bitten off with the same ease as a baby carrot if it weren’t for the strong will of the human brain. It is not comparable to gnawing through a vegetable with your teeth. A finger is not nutritious orange fibers. It is skin, muscle, and bone. The bone is the hardest part. Our bones are not easy to break.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe skin is not a difficult task. It’s similar to peeling a stone fruit. When it is time, I start with the points of the elbow and unwrap myself. I strip the arms of their sleeves. Sometimes it catches on a rough patch of muscle, and that’s when I squint my eyes shut and pull. The limbs are never much of a challenge. I shed the scar-covered mask and peace finds me as the sleek, red muscle shines through. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤWhen I get to my face, my stomach always drops. A rollercoaster that you know won’t crash but there’s always that news story once a year. I stare in the mirror and watch as I grow expressionless. I pull the skin upwards and lose myself. I rid my complexion of its disgusting pores. Blood drips down into my mouth and I lick my lips as it does. When I am done, all that remains are my two eyes staring back at me. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOn this particular day, I pick the shedding up off the ground and head to the closet. This is where they all hang. One by one in a row. They hang.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe former cloaks of myself sway as I pull the closet door open. Not a single one has gone unworn. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤKenji Zhang, Age 26. He was taking a smoke break behind his office building. He scoffed at my approach.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHelena Mack, Age 18. She was stumbling home from a house party on Halloween. She couldn’t run in a straight line. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYousef Hassan, Age 64. He was tending to the garden in his backyard. He didn’t reach behind him in time to grab the rake.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTrinity Barnes, Age 25. They were enjoying their bus ride home. They had a seagull tattoo across their arm. I always wondered what it meant. The bird flew in a blur across my face.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOliver Stalinski, Age 43. He was leaving a bar late in the evening. He didn’t fight back. He only raised his hands in defense.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAmanda Clevenger, Age 19. She was walking her dog through a quiet park. She lost the strength to fight back, but the scruffy terrier didn’t and bit down hard into my hand. 

I study them. Oliver still has those prevalent canine teeth marks across his skin. Because skin does not heal without a soul to carry it. I run my eyes over those indents, markings of a threatened animal. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI remember the scream, and when that dog’s teeth sliced into my hand, it registered to me that Oliver and I were one. My bones kept us from falling apart, but the tears in his skin reminded me that we were human. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMy suits are not all that different from their host. All they’re missing is the eyes. Eyes that remind us that we exist because the people around us tell us that we do. Amanda existed because the people around her told her that she existed. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤNot every suit is the right mask for me. Yousef’s skin felt too tight around my bones, and it hung loose beneath my jaw. Kenji’s skin felt worn and colorless despite his young years. Amanda’s skin was littered in scars that pulled the eyes of strangers as I wandered through the grocery. A person’s skin becomes their own through years of exhaustion. Babies are easily confused with one another because the earth has yet to ruin them. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤPlayground scrapes. Cat scratches. Razor slips. Cigarette burns. Drunken falls. Rough housing. Paper cuts. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI grab a hanger and carefully hang Chris in the closet. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤChristopher Stockman, Age 30. He was sitting on his front porch enjoying a midnight cup of tea. He asked me if I needed any help. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHelp. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“You were good to me, Chris.” I speak out into the silence. The eye holes in his face hang loosely, and his chest caves in on itself. His mouth falls into a deep frown without a puppeteer forcing it to smile. I watch as his skin seems to fold together before becoming completely still — joining its companions. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI let out a sigh now that I have been freed from Chris’ confines. I take a seat on the couch and shift as I feel my tendons make contact with the vinyl beneath it. I switch the television on. I eye my fingers carefully. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe bone is the hardest part. Our bones are not easy to break.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI stare out the window, as the newscaster’s voice drills into my ears. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Thirty-year-old Christopher Stockman was declared missing over thirty days ago, on February 2nd. Now, Christopher’s name has appeared in another case –- not as a potential victim but as a potential criminal.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤI turn in my seat as I look over into the open closet. I shake my head at Chris slowly. His expressionless skin remains motionless. The outlines of his facial features in a perpetual state of shock.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Stockman has been charged with the kidnapping and murder of a twenty-year old boy…”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHer voice trails off in my ears as I lock eyes with a lively photograph of Chris laid across the screen. He is not the Chris I had come to know. The Chris I had become. His eyes stare back at me. His eyes remind me that I exist because other people tell me I do.