Page 2 of Molt

“Nope.”

I grab my phone from the nightstand and nearly drop it trying to turn on the flashlight.

The beam lands on the floor.

I wish it hadn’t.

The thing is shaped around something.

Around me.

I can see the impression of a knee. The faint curve where my thigh would have been. Even the tiny scar I got when I was eleven after falling off my bike.

I look down.

The scar isn’t on my leg anymore. My fingers find the place automatically.

Smooth.

I rub harder. Nothing.

I know where that scar is—was.

I’ve touched it a thousand times.

Three little white lines just above my knee.

Gone.

I look back at the floor.

There they are.

Three tiny white lines.

On the skin beside my bed.

My stomach clenches violently.

I barely make it to the bathroom as I slam my knees against the tile and grab the toilet before everything I ate earlier comes back up.

When there’s nothing left, I sit against the bathtub.

My hands shake.

This isn’t happening.

There has to be an explanation.

Some kind of skin condition.

An allergic reaction.

Maybe I spilled something.

Maybe it’s some fucked-up piece of latex from…from what? I don’t own anything made of latex that looks like my leg.

I wipe my mouth and my reflection catches my attention, making me freeze.