Page 4 of Molt

I hate how good it feels.

I hate that my body wants me to keep going.

So I do.

I pull until the strip tears near my collarbone.

I stare at it hanging between my fingers.

My skin.

It has to be.

There’s a tiny freckle near the edge.

I look at my shoulder.

The freckle is gone.

I drop it into the sink.

My reflection looks back at me.

Pale. Terrified. Perfect.

Too fucking perfect.

I turn on the faucet and wash my hands until the water burns. Then I wash them again.

By the time I go back into my bedroom, I’ve convinced myself I’m going to call a doctor.

That’s all.

Doctors deal with disgusting shit every day.

People shed skin. Snakes shed skin. Lizards shed skin.

Humans…humans don’t molt.

I stop in the doorway.

The floor beside my bed is empty.

I stare at the spot.

No.

I step closer.

The piece is gone.

I check beneath the bed. Nothing.

Under the blanket. Nothing.

Maybe I imagined where it fell.

I pull the sheets off completely. Nothing.