In The Remnants
by Micah Castle
It’s like seeing the colorful explosions through someone else’s eyes, smelling the gunpowder and sulfur through someone else’s nose, tasting the smoke through someone else’s tongue, hearing the constant cheers vibrating the apartment through someone else’s ears. It’s like wearing a costume, being within a second layer, having an exterior body hiding the interior, real version, that desperately wants out.
But never is, until now.
The TV set to low, dulling the erupting audience before the giant descending, blindingly bright ball. Standing nude before the free-standing mirror, the outside light cast through the window. Faint colors splash over the reflection as the night sky explodes with them.
The false me brings the knife to the crook of its thin, pale arm. Stops. Hesitation in the blue eyes. There’s no returning once I begin. The internal me shivers, trembling with anticipation, excitement, compressing upon itself to spring forth at the moment of release.
Am I sure?
Do I really want this?
“No going back,” thin lips say as eyes water. “You know that, right?”
People outside begin screaming numbers, counting down. People on TV do, too.
The knife shakes in my grasp, the point pressing upon skin.
You look so much better in… My mother’s words whisper.
You’re wearing that? Son… Father’s hoarse voice washing away my mother’s.
Aren’t you my brother? My brother’s teasing coming in like the waning tide.
Dinners. Holidays. Family events. Friends.
Friends.
Were they truly my friends?
They knew the exterior, but not the interior, kept away from eyes and minds. Words chosen wisely, actions measured and calculated. Show what I’m only allowed to show, be who I’m supposed to be. Invisible rules guiding my life until I’m behind closed doors, curtained windows.
And even then, was I really letting out what’s inside or was I giving myself an even bigger cell?
Adulthood came and still the same unseen rules applied, at least the cell became larger. More rooms, my own bathroom, kitchen. Things done in the way I like without snide remarks or comments. Clothes I want to wear tucked behind the clothes I’m meant to wear.
But none of it matters, the real or false. Only wetting the insatiable desire of full release.
I want out.
Cheers boom from everywhere, confetti twirls into the air outside; the giant ball has fallen.
The knife slides in, gliding down to the wrist. Brackish blood seeps out, cascading down my open palm. Searing, sharp pain climbs up my arm, blooming within me. Ignore it as I slice an arching line over my chest; a vertical slash down my belly; crisscrossing my thighs and swirls over my shins. Hand the knife over and do the same to my other arm.
Murk pools at my feet, streaming under the mirror, soaking into the carpet below the bed. I want out but even with the openings, I’m terrified of being out. I’ve already gone too far to give up. Drop the knife, and use fingers to tear and peel away flesh and sinew, removing the false layer. Cold air tingles my inside. A skin slab falls from my chest. Thighs peel apart like opening a box. Arms and shins and hands and feet and neck are torn asunder like a child on Christmas morning.
Sleek, oily, translucent skin teems with sudden freedom. Gray-blue veins pulse underneath, oxidizing, fading to deep scarlet. All that remains is the false face, the blue eyes, thin lips, dainty nose, and chestnut hair.
Retrieve the knife from the floor, slice across the forehead, down the bridge of the nose, around the lips and chin. Let it fall once more and break away skin until bottomless eyes gleam in the dim light, a bald scalp trembles, slits where the ears and nose were twinge with unheeded scents and sounds, a lipless mouth opening, revealing spiraling phosphoresce gums.
Standing in the remnants of who I was meant to be, I’m finally free.
END
AUTHOR BIO: Micah Castle is a weird fiction and horror writer. His stories have appeared in various magazines, websites, and anthologies, and has three collections currently out. While away from the keyboard, he enjoys spending time with his wife, spending hours hiking through the woods, playing with his animals, and can typically be found reading a book somewhere in his Pennsylvania home.
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